The Death Trap Known As Beacon Hills
by A fool who thinks they're wise
Summary: Summer is supposed to be full of late nights, video games, and ice cream. Not evil monsters that want to kill you…to death. Yet somehow that, and Derek Hale, is what eats up most of Stiles' summer. Seriously, they all need to move. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

Hey Everyone!  
This is my first fic for Teen Wolf, and my first fic for Sterek, so I'm sorry if it's not all that good.  
Please enjoy and please **don't** send my fic to the actors, I'm a big believer in the fourth wall.  
**Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or any of its characters. Those belong to Jeff Davis.**

**The title was inspired by Heath Watches Teen Wolf. Go check her out when you get the chance!  
Warning: Coarse Language, References to canonical character death, **

**I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

_As an unperfect actor on the stage,_  
_Who with his fear put besides his part,_  
_Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,_  
_Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart,_  
_So I, for fear of trust, forget to say_  
_The perfect ceremony of love's rite,_  
_And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,_  
_O'ercharg'd with burden on mine own love's might._

_O, let my looks be then the eloquence _  
_And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,_  
_Who plead for love, and look for recompense,_  
_More that that tongue that more hath more express'd._  
_O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:_

_To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit._

_Shakespeare, Sonnet XXIII_

* * *

Just once, Stiles would like to be able to go through his day without the threat of imminent death looming overhead or lurking around dark corners. Such as the ones that Derek likes to pretend he's good at hiding in, instead of accepting the sad reality that it just makes him even more noticeable and that much more like the accused murderer and person of interest that most people now associate with his name.

But snide remarks about Derek's stealth aside, would it be too much to ask for just one summer free of all manner of monsters with all manner of razor sharp teeth that seem to exist for the sole purpose of killing them all to death?

Apparently, because the first Saturday of summer break, instead of sleeping in till noon like any normal teenager, Stiles gets woken up at 2:00 a.m. to the sound of the Kansas' 'Carry On My Wayward Son', Scott's ringtone. (He figured it fit him, struggling above the voices and confusion, just trying to get a glimpse beyond this illusion) Which pretty much means that someone is being, if they haven't already been, actively eviscerated and/or murdered.

Wonderful.

Stiles lunges for his phone groggily, still shaking off the last vestiges of sleep as they try and seduce him into ignoring his phone and crawling back under his sheets. Fortunately he manages to shake off that seduction, which, let's face it, he's pretty sure is the only kind he'll ever get, and answers his phone, rubbing a hand over his face and absentmindedly through his hair as he does so.

"Scott? What's wro—"

"Stiles!" The note of panic in his best friend's voice has him bolting upright, the lingering touch of sleep blown away instantly. "You have to get down here, Isaac—"

"Whoa, whoa, hey, slow down." Stiles tells him, trying to project a calm he doesn't feel as he fumbles around for his clothes in the dark of his room. "Where's 'here' exactly?" He lets out a low curse as he stubs his toe on his desk and the sound of something sliding down behind it in a faint 'clink' of metal tells him he's managed to knock his keys down the back of it. Perfect.

"Are you alright?" Scotts voice comes down the line, worry evident.  
"Yeah, fine." Stiles grabs a shirt that smells decent by human standards, though probably not werewolf standards (damn persnickety bunch) off the floor of his room and tugs that over his head, cradling his phone against his shoulder with his cheek as he pulls up a pair of jeans as well. "Just—where are you? It's like two in the morning, on a Saturday." He attempts to convey with his tone what a terrible tragedy this is and should never be repeated in any way, shape or form, but Scott doesn't seem to notice.

"We're down by the lake in the woods. You know, the one that's close to Derek's house?"  
There's some muffled conversation in the background before Scott's voice comes through again, surprise evident. "Really? Like with actual electricity and running water?" The mumbles seem to confirm this and Scott lets out a "Huh" of disbelief.

"What?" Stiles asks, curiosity more than slightly peaked, but then, as his Dad likes to say, he always has been slightly too nosy for his own good. See his stupid, idiotic, idea (in hindsight; nothing like hindsight to kick your ass when you're feeling down) to go out looking for the other half of a body while the killer was still on the loose. If he had stayed inside and played video games like a normal teenager that night, then he wouldn't have to get up on 2:00 in the morning on a Saturday, in _summer_.

Scott makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat that has Stiles raising his eyebrows slightly. "I'll tell you later, but you have to hurry and get down here."  
"What's the rush?" Stiles asks as he attempts to squeeze his fingers through the flea sized space between his desk and his bedroom wall in a brave struggle to rescue his keys from the dust bunnies that roam that savage space. He can already guess Scott's answer, but he likes to be sure what he's driving into before he does so, sometimes, when it comes to overgrown lizards at least, literally.

Scott takes a sharp, deep breath that answers Stiles' question far before the words fall down the line into his ear.

"Isaac found a body."

Stiles can't help it; he lets out a groan that sounds like a dying moose.

"Another one?" He hadn't even thought this many people lived in Beacon Hills, or at least used to. So much for their tourism industry. Come to sometimes-sunny-Beacon Hills! A place chock full of rest, relaxation, and a plethora of dead bodies. Fun for the whole family!

"Stiles!"

"Alright, Alright, I'll be there as soon as I grab my keys."

He moves to hang up the phone before a thought occurs to him, and he's suddenly not quite so casual or calm about this anymore. And what does it say about him that he manages to stay casual and calm when his best friend tells him that his fellow werewolf companion has found a dead body in the woods? Probably that he should be seeing fewer werewolves and more psychiatrists on a regular basis.

"Wait, do you know who it is?"

"Yeah, its, uh…" Scott pauses for a minute, and when he speaks again his voice is full of a conflicting mess of emotions, the most prominent being confusion and guilt. "It's Mr. Harris."

Now that, if the sudden rush of air suddenly leaving Stiles' lungs as though he's been punched in the stomach is anything to go by, is a bit of a surprise.

* * *

When Stiles pulls his jeep up to the lake, Scott nearly rips the door off his jeep, his thankfully-non-wolfy-brows furrowed in frustration.

"Where were you?" He demands indignantly. "I called you like half an hour ago!"  
"I dropped my keys behind my desk, ok? Not all of us have super werewolf strength that lets us move unnecessarily heavy objects with a pinkie." Stiles shoots back, but his voice wavers slightly, a nervousness creeping into his tone that Scott definitely picks up on because his face looses its frustrated look and morphs into one of concern.

"Hey, you ok?"

It's 2:30 on a Saturday morning and the dead body of his chemistry teacher is lying out there just a few meters beyond where he's sitting. And yeah, sure, there's no love lost between him and Mr. Harris, but that doesn't mean that he'd wanted him dead. So 'ok' isn't exactly the word that he would use to describe him at the moment.

But he nods as he undoes his seatbelt and gets out of the jeep in a flurry of hand motions. "Yeah, fine."

Scott looks like he's about to bring up the tick in his heart that told him what a big fat lie that was but Stiles talks over him before he gets a chance. He's good at that.

"So, where is he?"

He blinks and Isaac is next to them, pointing over to an overhang just in front of the lake. "Over there."

"Right, ok." He nods like that told him something vital to stall from asking the question that he knows he has to. "Can you tell how he died?"

Isaac nods as well, and Stiles wonders if he also does that to stall, before speaking.  
"Someone slashed his throat."

Hardly a surprise, lately that seems to be the most popular way to go around here.

"Right." Stiles says again, it seems to be the only thing his brain is allowing to fall off his tongue right now. "Could you, you know, smell anything?"  
"Besides rotting flesh?" Isaac asks, raising an eyebrow, but he shifts slightly closer to Stiles and away from the direction of Mr. Harris's body so Stiles merely rolls his eyes and tries to shove that lovely image to the back of his mind.

"Snakes." Scott supplies from the other side of Stiles, and he shrugs slightly when they turn to look at him. "Someone brought in a garden snake to Deaton's the other day, and it smells kinda like that."

"We're not talking the, you know, Kanima kind of snake, are we?" Stiles asks and Scott shakes his head, though his jaw ticks slightly at the reminder.

"No, the Kanima smelled different."

Stiles digests that for a moment before another thought occurs to him.

"Does Derek know?"

At the look Scott and Isaac send each other Stiles feels his left eyebrow arch so high it almost flies off into space. "You called me but you didn't call Derek?"

Cause really, what use is his hundred and forty seven pounds of fragile bones and sarcasm here? Given, he does have mad research skills, but without a computer in his hands or at the very least a phone and wifi he doesn't have a lot to offer. He can't do the things that Scott and his werewolf compadres can do. He'd told Scott as much at that fateful lacrosse game; you'd have thought the whole super werewolf hearing would've made his best friend a better listener.

He shakes himself out of that train of thought and sighs heavily. Werewolves.

"Well, _someone_ has to call him before we call the police, which, by the way, is not going to be me," (He's been found at enough crime scenes to already jeopardize his dad's career once, he's not going to do it again), "otherwise he'll rip all of our throats out." And they may be able to recover from that shit, but he sure as hell can't.

"I'm not calling the police either." Isaac speaks up, which yeah, Stiles gets. Recently cleared murder suspect turned runaway just happens to find a dead body of a widely disliked chemistry teacher in the woods? What cop worth his badge, including his dad, wouldn't be placing him right back on murder suspect status?

They both turn in unison to look at Scott, who throws his hands up in the air in frustration. "What the hell am I supposed to be doing in the woods at—" He checks his phone "3:00 in the morning?!"

"Just bat your cute puppy dog eyes at them and they'll roll right over." Stiles soothes and Isaac makes a sound that, if Stiles didn't know better, sounds like a muffled laugh. But hey, it's been a stressful day, and they're only three hours in, so he's willing to chalk that up to temporary insanity. His remark at least, manages to diffuse some of the tension hanging over them all like a heavy pall and pressing down on his shoulders.

Scott scowls before something flickers through his eyes and a smirk replaces the scowl as he crosses his arms. "Fine. But if I'm calling the police then I'm not calling Derek."

Wow, dick move. But, Stiles' reasons with himself, fair.

"I'm not calling him." Isaac states and Stiles gives him an incredulous look. "You haven't seen him he gets his first coffee."  
"He's your pack, he's like, at least, ten times less likely to rip your throat out than mine."

"I'm not calling him." Isaac repeats stubbornly.

"Fine you scarf wearing baby werewolf, I'll call him." Stiles relents, but only because a niggling voice in the back of his mind points out that Isaac had been the one to find the body, which was enough emotional trauma to inflict on anyone without forcing them to phone Derek Hale as well.

He pulls out his phone. "What's his number?"

Isaac rattles off the digits and Stiles taps them in, pausing for a moment to add him to his contacts on the very, very off chance that he might need it again. But hey, it pays to be prepared. He pushes the call button and shoots Isaac a look when he hops into the driver's seat of the jeep, his legs hanging over the side and out the open door.

"It's gonna take him a while to get here." Isaac tells him.

Stiles' face scrunches up in confusion. "He lives like five minutes away."  
Isaac shakes his head. "Not anymore, he—"

"_What." _Derek's voice growls into Stiles' ear, effectively cutting Isaac off.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Nice to see you still haven't learned how to use question marks Derek."

"_Stiles." _Derek states, his tongue caressing the name like it's something that crawled into his mouth and died.

"The one and only." Stiles replies sagely; with Derek's amazing deductive abilities it's amazing it took him so long to work out who the Kanima was.

A muffled groan echoes down the phone line. _"How did you get this number?"  
_"Oh, wow, a question mark! You do know how to use them."

"_**Stiles."**_

"Isaac gave it to me. See, we've got a little bit of a situation here—"

"_Isaac." _

"Yes Derek, try to keep up, now—"

"_Why would Isaac give you my phone number?" _The 'does he _want_ his throat ripped out?' went unspoken but still managed to ring loud and clear in his tone.

"If you went five seconds without interrupting me, I'd be able to tell you." Stiles snarks before somber reality crawls back into his tone.

"He found a dead body."

A flurry of motion crackles down the phone line along with Derek's next words.

"_Where are you?" _He snarls, and Stiles feels his eyes widen slightly at the animosity behind it.

"At the lake. The one—"

There's a click and suddenly silence is the only thing Stiles is listening to.

* * *

By the time Derek arrives it's 3:30 and the heavy, suffocating pall of tension has once again fallen over them all, the anticipation crackling underneath the surface of everyone's skin as they wait for him to show. It's been a few weeks since the whole gang was last together, back in that abandoned warehouse (which, by the way, Beacon Hills has _way_ too many of) with Gerard and Jackson before the former went AWOL and the latter went from murderous teenage mutant ninja turtle to slightly less murderous werewolf. And Stiles is still not quite sure whether or not Derek's planning to rip all their throats out for pulling the wool over his eyes. But, c'mon, that was Scott, (who Stiles has to give props to because he never thought the asthmatic kid, that he had to actively prevent from eating glue on more than one occasion, could ever come up with something like that), not him, he's only guilty by association. Though, by the way he was haphazardly throwing daggers with his eyes when he back flipped away from them all with Isaac, he's not sure Derek recognizes that extremely important distinction.

So when the two glowing red eyes emerge from the shadows, Stiles can't be blamed if he jumps, just a little bit.

"Where is it?" Derek demands by way of greeting and Stiles rolls his eyes while Isaac points. Derek gives a sharp nod and brushes past them towards the body without another word. Which ok, he knows Derek was pretty much raised by wolves, but rude much?

"Well, hello to you to." Stiles mutters under his breath, but the only response he gets is Scott's sharp elbow in his side.

After another five minutes of silence, Derek returns. His whole body is tense, the sharp angles of his features tight enough to slice through metal, and he glares at them like if he stares long enough they'll all spontaneously combust and never bother him again. But he figures that might be a side effect of Scott pretending to be in his pack so that he could trick Gerard, and of him being Scott's best friend.

"What were you doing here?" He bites out, that undercurrent of anger that never seems to go away flaring through his words. Stiles opens his mouth to respond but Isaac answers before he can which, wow, is a first.  
"Looking for Erica and Boyd." Isaac replies tightly, gold flaring in his eyes and his fingernails beginning to lengthen slightly; which tells Stiles that he should probably get him away from his jeep if he wants to drive it any time in the immediate future.

Scott shoots Derek a look equal parts incredulity and condemnation. "You still haven't found them?"

Derek stiffens even more at that, which Stiles, he's gonna be honest, hadn't thought possible.

"I told you not to going looking for them on your own." He growls at Isaac, doing his best to completely ignore Stiles and Scott. With all these wonderful social graces Stiles is surprised that Scott isn't jumping at the chance to be in Derek's pack.

"Look putting that aside for now," Stiles interrupts, because by now it's almost four and he's pretty sure his Dad was supposed to be home by six, and because he doesn't want to have to try and fail to break up a werewolf brawl "Do you have any idea what killed him?"

Derek's scowl deepens and he shakes his head.  
"No, all I can make out is—"  
"Snakes." Scott cuts him off and Derek glares at him before giving a terse nod. "That's right."

Stiles sighs. "Perfect, so the only thing we have to go on is that it smells like snakes." Really, Google, the precious thing that it is, can only do so much.

"Not we." Derek bites out, shooting Stiles a look. "Isaac and I will handle this."

He turns around and stalks off into the woods, Isaac directing Stiles and Scott a disgruntled look before he trails off reluctantly after him, and calls over his shoulder: "You can do whatever you want."

And that, that vague dismissal there, kind of stings a bit. They'd called Derek for help, not to get blown off and treated like little kids who'd goofed around after their parents told them not to and accidently broken something. To be treated like Scott hadn't been the one to save them all from Gerard, and Stiles hadn't been the one that brought Lydia, who ended up saving them from Jackson, to their wild werewolf-hunter-kanima showdown. Like he hadn't saved the dick from drowning only two weeks back, and like he had gotten more than a bloody mess for a face and nightmares that still chase him out of his sleep some nights as his reward for the whole fiasco.

Stiles vaguely wonders if Derek still wouldn't trust them if they managed to save him from an atomic bomb because, clearly, holding the paralyzed jackass above water for two hours means _nothing_.

Scott looks like he's thinking of chasing after Derek and ripping him a new one, and Stiles is half wishing that he will, but decides against it, pulling out his phone and taking his aggression out on it instead.

"What a jerk." Scott says vehemently and Stiles agrees with him wholeheartedly, though he would've chosen a far stronger word.

* * *

Four hours later, Google has offered him nothing but nightmares about very real killer snakes that will have him checking his toilet, bathtub, and every inch of his bedroom before he ever sleeps again for all eternity.

Oh, and a few thousand myths about what it might be that range from Nïðhöggr, a Norse dragon that eats from the roots of Yggdrasil, the world tree, (thank-god for the Avengers franchise or he wouldn't have known that) and likes to nom on the corpses of those guilty of murder, adultery, and oath breaking, (Harris would fit right in) to the loch ness monster.

He runs a hand through his hair and groans, he needs way more information if he's gonna have a snowball's chance in hell of figuring out what thing is.

A knock on the door drags his attention away from his computer screen and he looks into the weary, vaguely disappointed and highly suspicious gaze of his Dad.

So business as usual on that front at least.

"Hey." Stiles tries for casual, but is pretty sure he manages to land on shifty. "Busy night?"

"You could say that." His dad replies, eyes raking over Stiles with the kind of intensity that says he'll get his ass handed to him on a silver platter if those sharp eyes find even a hair out of place. "Scott called and said he found a dead body in the woods."

Stiles forces surprise to rise to his features. "What? Oh my god, is he ok?"

His dad's look tells him that he doesn't buy it for a second and Stiles feels his gut clench as trepidation weighs down his stomach.

"You know it was kind of strange to see him out there on his own, seeing as you two have been practically attached at the hip ever since you met."

The accusation rings loud and clear in his tone and Stiles swallows heavily, a painful sort of lump of unfairness forming in his throat. "I haven't talked to Scott since yesterday." His voice comes out far quieter than it usually does and he stares at his desk, suddenly immensely interested in the pattern on the wood. He hears his Dad sigh in the doorway and feels his stomach twist. Guilt, thy name is Stiles.

"Well you'll be pleased to know that unless Scott has found some way to completely drain all the blood out a human body without getting any of that blood on either himself or the victim, he's off the hook."

Stiles' head snaps back to his father in an instant. "What did you say?"

"Scott's off the hook." His Dad repeats, his eyebrow rising slightly.

Stiles shakes his head impatiently. "No, before that, about the body."

His Dad gives his own head a shake. "Coroner says he's pretty sure that it had all the blood drained out of it." He runs a tired hand through his hair and sighs. "Parrish says that it looks like some cult thing that he saw in New York once, but…hell, I don't know."

He gazes off into somewhere that Stiles can't follow for a moment before coming back to himself and fixing Stiles with a steely look. "I'm going to bed, I'm on another night shift tonight." He points a stern finger of sternness at him. "Stay out of trouble and away from the crime scene." He makes to leave before pausing and poking his head back around the doorframe. "Remember to make the food for the BBQ next Saturday."

Stiles nods and gives him a mock salute. "Sir, yes, Sir."

The Sherriff gives another long-suffering sigh and ambles down the hall towards his bedroom. Stiles turns back to his computer, a manic gleam lighting up as his eyes as he opens up Google once more, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he types in his query.

He gets what he was looking for within minutes and fires off a text to Scott, self-satisfied grin stretching from ear to ear.

That is, until motion in his peripheral vision catches his eye and he turns before subsequently nearly falling out of his chair and having a heart attack, when his eyes meet the _Looming_ figure of Derek Hale. Yeah, that's right, _Looming_, with a capital L. God; did he _want_ everyone to think he was a serial killer?

"_Holy __**God**_, would it kill you to use a door for once in your life like a normal, functioning member of society?"

"What did you find?" Derek demands, ignoring him completely and walking over to peer at his laptop, which Stiles snaps shut immediately.  
"Oh no, you don't get to just jump through my—my freaking _window_ and demand information like—like I'm just some pitiful weak human that exists solely to do your bidding. What the hell are you even doing here? What happened to the whole 'Me and Isaac will deal with this, now go fuck yourselves' thing from this morning? Don't tell me your heart magically grew two sizes in the space of four hours."

Derek growls slightly and Stiles merely raises an eyebrow.

"English Cujo, I'm not that fluent in werewolf."

Derek gives a long-suffering sigh of his own before shooting Stiles an unimpressed look. "Did you forget who your Dad is? I was listening in to see what they knew about the body, and I heard your heartbeat spike." His gaze shifts to Stiles' phone where it sat on his desk. "And seeing as you just texted Scott, I figured that meant you'd found something."

Stiles' features scrunch up in confusion. "Wait, how'd you know I texted Scott? It could've been anyone."

Derek gives him a look. "You don't have any one to text besides Scott."  
"That's not true!" Stiles protests. "I know people!"

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Like?"

Stiles splutters indignantly for a moment. "I know Danny, and—and Jayden and Mandy and—Heather—and—"  
"And out of all those people, how many do you text on a regular basis?" Derek asks; his eyebrow still arched perfectly.

Stiles opens his mouth for a few minutes before allowing it to fall closed.

Derek rolls his eyes. "Exactly. So what." He begins to move slowly towards Stiles, "Did. You. Find." and stops only a few footsteps away, hazel eyes boring holes through his head as he waits him to break down under the sheer awesome that is his Alpha-ness.

Yeah, so not happening.

Stiles gives a slight mocking shake of his head. "Forget question marks, you need to relearn how to use punctuation as a whole."

"_**Stiles**__." _Derek grinds out, "Tell me what you found."

"Like I said, I distinctly remember you saying that you and Isaac would handle this." Stiles repeats, crossing his arms defiantly and glaring right back. "So go handle it." He turns around in his seat to stare at his closed laptop, well aware how much it made him look like a petulant child, but resolving not to give one single fuck. "I'm just going to sit here and do whatever."

Derek jerks his chair back to face him, eyes beginning to take on a familiar red glow. "This isn't some game where you and Scott run around and play heroes." Derek bites out. "People have died."

"People are always dying around here." Stiles snaps back. "It's practically the residential pastime. And I seem to remember Scott saving your ass a few weeks back so you? You don't have a leg to stand on when it comes to 'playing heroes'." He glares right back into Derek's glowing red eyes. "Or are you upset because he stole your thunder? That he was the one who swept in and saved the day before you could prove just how _awesome_ an alpha you really are?"

Derek's grip tightens on his chair and for a moment Stiles thinks he might punch him, or at the very least slam him against another wall.  
"If that's really what you think, they why did you call me?"

Stiles throws his hands up in the air, and not in the fun way, the undercurrent of frustration that had been flowing underneath his skin throughout this stupid conversation bubbling through.

"Because a) you would've ripped our throats out if we didn't and b) we thought you might have _actually_ managed to get over yourself by now and would help us out. Not draw a line in the sand and demand that we stay on our side."

"Scott's the one who drew the line." Derek snarls, and _ah now we're getting somewhere_. "He—" Derek catches himself and swallows down his next words before they can fall off his tongue.

"What?" Stiles asks, eyes searching Derek carefully.

Derek glowers at him. "It doesn't matter. What does matter, is that there's another killer on the loose and you're wasting time. Now, _tell me_."

"Look, don't you have more important things to be doing than snarling at me?" Stiles diverts. "Like looking for Boyd and Erica?"

Derek's jaw clenches, and his grip moves from Stiles' chair to his shoulder. "Tell me what you know, or I'm going to rip your throat out; with my teeth."  
"Aaaand we're back to threats of bodily harm. How very original Derek, but I hate to break it to you, I'm not afraid of you." Stiles huffs out a humorless laugh. "And I'm definitely not going to tell you."  
"You sure about that?" Derek asks, his eyes searching Stiles'.

Stiles nods.

And in response, in a flurry of motion, Derek grabs his laptop and holds it out the window.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" Stiles very nearly screeches, leaping out of his chair as his goddamn heart nearly leaps out of his chest, for good reason.

His baby is just four fingers and a thumb away from Laptop heaven.

"Tell me what you found or I drop it." Derek tells him lowly. "I'll count to three."  
Stiles narrows his eyes at him. "You wouldn't dare."

In response, Derek removes one finger from the Laptop. "One—"

"Oh my god, stop! I'll tell you! Oh my god, I'll tell you-I'll tell you everything, just please, put it down! You're giving me a heart attack!"

Derek gives him a long look before slowly pulling it back in and placing it gently on the bed. Stiles collapses into his chair and feels his shoulders sag.  
"Forget Matt, you are pure, unadulterated evil."

In a trick of the light, Stiles thinks he sees the corners of Derek's mouth twitch in a smile. He runs a hand over his face as he struggles to get his heart rate under control. Damn werewolves.

"It's called a Lamiae." Stiles tells him. "L-A-M-I-A-E. The original mythos comes from the Greek, about a Queen called Lamia, L-A-M-I-A, who was supposed to be a lover of Zeus. Only Hera found out and in her jealousy killed all her children, making her go insane and turn into a sort of demon, stealing and devouring the children of others in _her_ jealousy. But later on in folklore, stories about half-snake, half-women that are similar to vampires pop up, and I think that's what we're probably looking for. They're supposed to slither around, seduce people by transforming into beautiful women, and drink the blood of the innocent. But seeing as it nommed on Harris it's safe to assume that that part has been romanticized slightly."

Derek snorts. "Just slightly."

Stiles sends him a surprised look, a smile starting to curl at the corners of his lips. "Wow, a joke! You'll be throwing parties next."

Derek scowls again and Stiles has to fight to keep the smile from spreading across his face as he imagines a party hat on top of Derek's head. It's a near thing and, judging by Derek's harsh tone when he next speaks, he's not entirely sure he succeeds.

"Does it say how to kill them?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Most of what I found is just about different forms it took in different cultures and when the stories first began to gain popularity."

He taps his fingers against the desk thoughtfully. "Scott's going to ask Lydia to ask Allison if we can copy the Bestiary, and then he's going to ask Lydia to help us translate it."

Derek's brow furrows at Allison's name and his jaw clenches slightly. "Why doesn't he just ask her himself?"

"Who? Allison? Um, because they broke up?" Stiles suggests, his eyebrows hiking up when Derek's face floods with surprise. "You didn't know?"

"I don't know if you noticed, but Scott's not exactly in the habit of calling me up to have girl chats and come eat ice cream and cry on my sofa." Derek snarks.  
"Dude, don't be a dick. Besides, you don't even own sofa." Stiles shrugs. "He really loved her, ok?" Still loves her, if the moping he's been doing recently is anything to go by, but there's only so much that Stiles is willing, and is able, to offer up to Derek without breaking the bro code.

"Caring about people doesn't make you weak, just FYI. But if that's what you choose to believe then don't worry, I don't think it's infectious."

Derek shoots him a considering look that holds a much sharper edge to it, like he's seeking out the best way to rip his throat out as painfully as possible. "I know. I mean, you've been around Scott for years and you don't give a shit about anyone but yourself, so I think I'm safe."

It's a low blow. Stiles' dealt plenty of low blows in his time to recognize one when he sees one. And it's so far away from fair that it's a mere blip in the distance that Stiles has to strain his eyes to see. He's pretty sure that Derek didn't even mean it, just said it to piss him off, to get under his skin like Stiles had gotten under his.

And Stiles knows that, he knows that he knows that, but it doesn't stop the guilt and self-loathing as it begins to crackle just beneath the surface of his skin; An electrical current that's been orchestrating his movements for the better part of ten years now.

And then a long suppressed memory slips through the iron walls that Stiles has barricaded it behind, the soft voice whispering so poisonously in his mind.

"_Baby boy, poor baby boy, you always care too much about others. That's going to be your downfall."_

"Stiles?" Derek's voice pulls him out of his thoughts and he blinks back the memory.

Something in his face, or maybe his heartbeat, has Derek on high alert, because he's standing now, hands reaching towards Stiles with concern that twists his face like it had that night at the pool; but without that mix of panic and frustration thrown in. And Stiles—Stiles has to shove down the impulse to shove Derek out the window, curling his hands into fists at his sides.

"Get out."

Derek pauses and Stiles feels the urge to punch him rise exponentially.  
"Stiles I didn't—I wasn't—"

"I said get out." Stiles cuts him off sharply, hurt leaking into his tone. He's angry, and what makes it worse is that he's angry at himself for getting angry in the first place; leading to a cocktail of volatile emotions churning within him and he swears that if Derek is there for one more minute he really is going to punch him, even if it means breaking his hand.

Derek hesitates for only a moment before he turns abruptly and swings out of the open window without another word. Stiles waits for a moment to make sure he's really gone before slumping down on his bed, lying down and trying to fight back long imprisoned revenants that threaten to rise to the front of his mind.

* * *

Lydia levels her best lethal glare at them as they arrive in Allison's driveway that afternoon. Which ok, Stiles doesn't blame her for being angry at them, they'd pretty much kept her out of the loop for the better part of a year; only letting her fully in after her boyfriend had been killed in front of her and then been reborn as a werewolf, and then shortly after moved to London. Subsequently breaking up with her again as he went.

If he were in her shoes, he'd be pretty pissed at them too.

Not that Stiles has ever thought about getting a boyfriend or anything, he just meant that if he was in the body of the immensely attractive red-haired girl that he'd been crushing on since grade three—and oh god that did not come out like he meant it to.

He gives his head a quick shake, something that makes Lydia raise one of her perfectly manicured eyebrows at him as she rakes his eyes over his outfit; faded jeans and a ratty old t-shirt. Ok, so he wasn't exactly dressed to impress, but c'mon, they were supposed to be finding a murderer, not dissecting his style or lack thereof.

"You're late." Lydia tells them as they make their way up the stairs of Allison's porch.  
"By three minutes." Scott protests and she huffs and rolls her eyes.

"You'd think your werewolf speed would actually make sure you were on time now and again, but apparently not so." Lydia remarks sharply, opening the door to the house and leading them upstairs. Stiles and Scott share a look behind her back before following her in.

When they make it up to Allison's room, Scott manages not to let out a pitiful puppy dog whimper at the sight of her, but Stiles can tell it's a near thing and he swears that his ears seem to droop slightly. She's sitting at her desk, surrounded by a pile of brown cardboard boxes, and when she turns to look at them her smile is tight; Stiles can still see the faintest traces of guilt lingering on her features. But whether that's from going temporarily crazy and partnering up with her psychotic grandfather, or from breaking up with Scott, he's not sure. He's not even sure she knows about Gerard, and what he did to him, but seeing her makes his throat tighten just that little bit and he has to swallow down the accusation that rises to the tip of his tongue. Which he does because, despite what Derek thinks, he's not a total asshole.

An uncomfortable sort of silence has settled over them all and Stiles coughs slightly to try and dispel it before speaking.

"Hey, so did you guys find anything?"

Allison blinks and finally looks away from Scott, choosing to stare at the Archaic Latin on her laptop instead. "It took a while, but yeah, we got something."

Lydia gives a slight eye roll as she makes her way over to stand beside Allison.  
"Something? Allison, please. What we found is going to save the day. We should be given medals of honor." A smile curved the corners of her lips and some of the tension in Allison's shoulders falls away, her smile growing a little less tight and a little more real.

"So what did you find?" Scott asks, finally dragging his puppy dog eyes from

Allison to look at Lydia, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as well.

Lydia crosses her arms over her chest and sends them a smug smirk. "Well first of all, it doesn't just take blood from its victims, it takes their life-force as well."

"Life-force?" Stiles questions, confusion seeping into his tone. "Like, their soul?"

Lydia shakes her head. "It's hard to explain, and really difficult to translate, but I think it means that it takes their strength, like, their will to live and struggle." She shrugs. "Makes for an easier kill."

"Okay," Scott says, his face twisting a bit like he's having trouble digesting that particular lovely little fact, "did you find out how to kill it?"

Lydia nods, a smile curling at the corners of her lips spreading into one of extreme smug satisfaction.

"You have to stake it."

"Stake it?" Stiles exclaims incredulously; silver bullets won't work on werewolves but stakes work on snake-vampires? What sort of contrary world is this?

Lydia nods. "With wood from a mountain ash tree, covered in the blood of the innocent, willingly given."

"God, I knew that was going to come in somewhere." Stiles groans, covering his face with his hands before letting them fall to his side. "Does it at least say what constitutes someone being 'innocent' so we know what poor sucker we have to bleed out?"

Lydia arches another one of those perfect eyebrows at him and he groans again.

"Seriously?"

Lydia nods, the smug smile growing that much wider.

Stiles groans again. "I need to get laid, like, today."

"Not before we bleed you out, honey." Lydia tells him sweetly and Stiles shoots her a look.

"You are pure evil, you know that?"

She shrugs modestly. "I try."

"No one's bleeding anyone out." Scott protests; giving them all stern looks like he actually thinks they're planning on bleeding Stiles dry the minute he turns his back. "We'll go to Deaton and get one of those Mountain ash stakes and then _he_ can take some of Stiles' blood to put on it. _Safely_. Ok?"

They all nod convincingly for Scott's piece of a mind and share a small smirk with each other when Scott turns his back before following him down the hall.

"And don't think I didn't see that." Scott calls over his shoulder.

Stiles shakes his head in mock horror. "We'd never."  
He sends Allison and Lydia a wink that has Allison struggling not to giggle and slight twinkle of humor lighting up Lydia's eye.

* * *

So that's how, a few hours later, Stiles finds himself wandering aimlessly through the woods, acting as bait for one Lamiae (at least, he hopes it's only one); Scott, Allison, and Lydia trailing a short distance behind him with their only weapon (because that totally isn't going to backfire terribly on them).

He gives another huff and kicks a stone through the leaves, his mind wandering back to their conversation at Deaton's.

"_A Lamiae?" The vet/Obi Wan Kenobi frowned, his arms crossed over his chest thoughtfully.  
"Yeah, at least, that's what we think it is." Scott told him, a frown of his own beginning to creep onto his face at the vet's expression. "Do you think it's something else?"_

_Deaton shook his head. "No, no that certainly sounds like a Lamiae but—" He paused for a moment before continuing. "Northern California isn't exactly their first choice for hunting grounds."_

"_Well, this is Beacon Hills." Stiles pointed out. "It's like the entirety of hell condensed into one town."_

"_Where is their first choice?" Scott asked, the terrible sort of feeling that was pulling on Stiles' gut likely tugging at his as well.  
"Well, Greece." Deaton said, his frown growing.  
"Okay, so that's not exactly just a case of confused state lines." Allison pointed out, a frown beginning to crawl across her face as well."_

"_No," Deaton agreed, "No it's not."  
"Ok, so what does that mean?" Lydia asked slowly, a frown already fully fixed onto her face.  
_

_Deaton shook his head. "I don't know. Not yet at least."_

The snap of a twig behind him drags him out of his musings and has him spinning around and nearly tripping over his own feet.

"Whoa!" He yells, pointing his flashlight at the figure before him, squinting when a girl steps into the faint light. "Who's there?"

The girl smiles, shadows playing over her sharp cheekbones as she steps steadily closer towards him. As she move forward he can make out her long back hair, pale skin that appears almost luminescent against the darkness that hangs in dark shrouds all around them, parted only minutely by the light of his flashlight.

"Stiles." She says and something about the way she says it, a breathy whisper, that still manages to be loud enough for him to hear, makes him shiver. A strange haze settles over his mind and he blinks rapidly, struggling to clear it as the hair on the back of his neck stands up in warning; he has to be careful, there's something he was doing out here, something dangerous, something important.

Something he should be able to remember.

She laughs and he blinks, stumbling back slightly when he realizes how close she is to him now. She flashes him a blinding smile and he notes vaguely that her teeth seem a little sharp. "You're late."

"I'm sorry." He says, the words falling past his lips before he can even fully register hers, taking one more step backwards and feeling his back meet the trunk of a tree.  
Her smile grows a little bit wider, and he swallows, hands scrambling for purchase on the rough bark behind him.

She takes another step forward and the distance between the two of them can now officially be measured in the millimeters. She's slightly taller than him, and brings her hands up to cup his face; thumb stroking over his lips as she huffs out a small laugh, her warm breath landing in a puff against his cheek.  
"It's fine." She tells him. "I'm just glad you're here."

He's glad he's here too, and as she tilts her head down towards him, lips intent on finding his, he takes a moment amid the heat stirring in his lower abdomen to admire her half-lidded eyes and what an amazing hazel green they are. Though, obviously, they don't quite hold a candle to Derek's. God, figures the asshole would get the body of a God and amazing eyes as well—

Derek.

Derek Hale.

Who was currently hunting a Lamiae on the Beacon Hills preserve.

The same Lamiae that he, Scott, Lydia, and Allison were hunting.

Which, he's willing to bet his allowance for the next foreseeable future on, was the same Lamiae that currently had him pressed up against a tree.

He begins to flail wildly, mouth opening as he prepares to holler for Scott at the top of his lungs, only for the Lamiae to shove him back up against the tree with enough force that he swears he hears the wood crack. She presses a finger to his lips, features beginning to take on a serpentine shape, green shimmering scales covering her cheekbones and underneath her eyes.

"Shhh, Stiles." She tells him and Stiles feels his heart rabbiting desperately as he struggles to get away, to keep his head clear as the fog threatens to settle over his mind once more. "This doesn't have to be difficult for you."

Stiles lands a well aimed kick in her gut and she stumbles backwards, loosening her hold on him and allowing him to scramble away from her.

"But it can be." She hisses from behind him and he would roll his eyes at the totally cliché line if he wasn't so busy trying to escape certain death.

"SCOTT!" He hollers at the top of his lungs, feet struggling for purchase amid the tangle of tree roots and wayward rocks beneath his feet. "SCOTT, NOW!"

The Lamiae reaches out and pulls his feet out from under him with a snarl.  
"Scott!" He yells, trying to scramble away from the death hold the Lamia has on his ankle. "For fuck's sake, kill it already!"

With another terrible hiss the Lamiae flips him over, allowing him to getter view of its lower body, transformed into the tail of a serpent, scaly elbows, glowing yellow-green eyes narrowed with a slit-like pupil staring hungrily down at him, and most importantly, the gleaming razor sharp teeth of doom that are going to slice into his throat and drain him of all his blood faster then you can say—well, anything really.

He shoves at it desperately, struggling for some miraculous way to escape from its grip, and feels the air rush out of his lungs as it slams him against the ground; a wayward tree root digging into his left shoulder painfully.

"Hold. Ssstill." The Lamiae bites out, its forked tongue peeking out as it speaks.

Stiles wants to thrash even more against its iron hold, but all the strength seems to be flowing out of his body into the ground below, the soil absorbing it like it would rainwater. His heart feels heavy in his chest, like it's taking all the remaining strength he has to keep him from beating, and weakly at that. And even then it sounds really fucking loud in his ears, the _lub-dub _drowning out every other noise around him.

It takes his vision beginning to blur as the Lamiae leans down towards his neck to realize that this is it. He's going to die.

He finds himself thinking of his dad, of what this'll do to him, having to bury yet another member of his family before their time. He wonders who will make sure he sticks to his diet plan, make sure that he doesn't destroy his heart and arteries with greasy food. He wonders who will take care of Scott, make sure that he doesn't make an absolute fool of himself, singing Barry Manilow beneath Allison's window like some knock off Romeo. He's pretty sure Lydia and Allison will be ok, neither has ever paid that much attention to him, and they have each other to fall back on. And should the going get tough; he knows they're tough enough to get going.

He feels the hot breath of the Lamiae against his neck as it widens its jaw to go in for the kill and he's struck with a sudden rush of unfairness and utter helplessness.

He doesn't want to die, oh god he doesn't want to die, please god don't let him die.

Dimly he hears a snarl to his right and in a sudden rush of air, the suffocating weight of the Lamiae is knocked off of him and he can breathe again; deep gasping breaths that send blood and awareness once again coursing through his veins. As he struggles to sit up, he hears the snarls and growls of one extremely pissed off werewolf amid the hisses of a severely pissed off Lamiae before the snake gives a pitiful cry of pain and the hisses suddenly cut off.

Relief crashes through him and he slumps for a minute before beginning his struggles to clamber to his feet again. He's aware of Scott stomping towards him as his head struggles to stop spinning and he lets a dramatic sigh fall past his lips. "Lydia was right. We really need to work on your fucking timing."

Two hands capture his shoulders in a death grip that is entirely unnecessary thank-you very much, and haul him to his feet to meet the face of, not Scott, but one extremely fucking pissed off Derek Hale.

"Derek—" He starts, but doesn't get a chance to finish because Derek chooses that moment to throw him up against the nearest tree and tighten his death grip on his shoulders.

"What the fuck were you doing?" He snarls, face completely transformed, his teeth elongated threateningly, eyebrows non-existent, and his eyes completely blood red. "Do you have any idea how close you were to—  
"To being Lamiae chow? You know, strangely enough, the thought did cross my mind—"

"You think this is funny?" Derek demands, his claws beginning to poke through the material of Stiles' hoody. "You think—were you _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

Stiles glares at him. "I was _trying_ to lure it out so Scott could—"  
"You? You couldn't even take down a geriatric hunter, what the hell made you think you could take down that?" Derek scoffs but there's still rage flaring through every syllable. Stiles stiffens at the reminder, the image of Gerard's face leering over him flashing before his eyes.

"I seem to recall you being unable to beat that 'geriatric hunter' yourself." He bites out sharply before shoving hard at Derek's shoulders. "Get off."

"What would your Dad say if he found you out here?" Derek demands, not moving an inch. "What do you think it would do to him if you—if I hadn't—" He breaks off, waging an internal war for a moment before clenching his jaw. "I was right, you never think about anybody but yourself."

"Yeah, because that time I decided to save you from _drowning_ instead of saving myself was really selfish, right?" Stiles snaps, his heart twanging painfully at the mention of his dad, which Derek has no right to bring up. If his psychotic uncle hadn't bit Scott than he would still be able to have an actual conversation with his father that didn't involve lying.

"I told you that Isaac and I would handle it." Derek tells him, completely ignoring his remark and causing Stiles to throw his hands up in the air in frustration.  
"Yeah, and then you showed up at my house four hours later needing my help. Which," He rolls his eyes, "doesn't exactly inspire confidence in your abilities, Derek."

"I wasn't there for your help." Derek snarls, and Stiles doesn't have to be a werewolf to know that's total bullshit, (Cause like he said, mad research skills are pretty much the only weapon currently taking up space in his arsenal, who wouldn't want to take advantage of that?), but it still stings, like sandpaper on an open wound and he flinches slightly; some part of him wondering if it isn't a lie and Stiles shoves that part down because a) of course it's a lie and b) even if it isn't, since when does he give enough of a damn about Derek Hale to be hurt when the asshole doesn't want his help?

_Though,_ a voice whispers ever so poisonously in his mind, _you cared enough about him to hold him in a pool for two hours._

And Stiles points out sharply that that was because again, contrary to what Derek Hale thinks, Stiles is actually a decent human being and he's not going to let somebody drown just because he doesn't like them all that much. His dad raised him better than that.

Derek shifts his hold on Stiles slightly, completely boxing him against the tree before speaking again. "Get this through your head; I was there because your dad is the Sheriff and I wanted to a) make sure my name wasn't going to be dragged into this and b) see if _they_ had found out any more information about the body." He holds Stiles' gaze, enunciating his words carefully. "The fact that _you_ found out what it was? That was just a lucky coincidence."

"Alright I get it Cujo, you'd rather lick Scott's butt than accept any help from me." Stiles fires back, impatient to get away, tired of being pinned in place and forced to listen as Derek tries to tear him apart with his words. He guesses he should be thankful that at least it's not his teeth; Derek really is on the path to becoming an accepted member of society. "Now let go of me so I can go home."

Derek holds his gaze for a moment more before slowly backing up and loosening his Vulcan death grip on Stiles' shoulders. And yeah, speaking of, Derek is kinda like Spock, isn't he? What with his whole: "werewolves do not feel" vibe going on; except Spock had regular moments where he revealed that he was actually a decent guy and Derek only has those moments once every blue moon.

Motion from his peripheral vision catches his eye and as he glances over Stiles is reminded of why they can never trust Derek Hale to do _fucking anything_ because there the Lamiae is, still fully alive, arching through the air towards them. Its claws and razor sharp teeth extended and aiming right for—

"Derek!" Stiles shouts, a terrible, desperate panic alighting in his chest as he surges forward, hands shoving the stunned alpha off his feet and down towards the safety of the cold hard ground. As they fall, his eyes catch the glint of teeth and claw passing them by overhead and he feels his heart jump when his ears catch the sound of the Lamiae slamming into the tree. The crack and groan of the wood as it snaps beneath the creature's weight and drops towards the ground. Hopefully away from them, this night has been shitty enough without a fucking tree falling on them.

They hit the ground with a hard thump as another growl sounds from somewhere behind them and the Lamiae gives a pitiful shriek before the squelch of something tearing through flesh echoes loudly through the clearing. Ingraining itself into Stiles' memory before he nearly collapses as a line of fire stretching from the top of his right shoulder to the bottom of the left side of his back ignites. He grasps Derek's leather jacket tighter as he clenches his teeth and tries to fight down the cry of pain that rises to his throat, but it manages to sneak through the microscopic gaps in his teeth anyway. Fucking werewolves that never watch their fucking backs.

"Stiles!" Derek shouts, and really? That whole shouting thing is totally unnecessary, Derek is like right next to his ear; werewolf hearing or not there's no chance that Stiles' isn't going to hear him.  
"Don't shout." He bites out, a gasp of pain escaping with the words.

Derek sits up, carefully drawing Stiles up with him with an air of caution to his movements that Stiles hadn't thought existed; but one that he was really grateful for now.

"Stiles!" And yeah, that voice plodding towards them is definitely Scott.  
"We really, really need to work on your timing." Stiles tells him a little breathlessly, pain still consuming a decent amount of his air, as Scott arrives; worry and panic dancing over his face before his eyes fully take in Derek and blame joins that fun little party as well.

"What happened?" He demands, moving as though to take Stiles from Derek and Stiles feels a jolt run through his body as Derek stands up; Stiles still cradled gently in his arms like some stupid, princessy-damsel in distress and not the conquering hero, who just saved an alpha's ass, he really is.

"It's not a big deal," Stiles tells him, "it just scratched me a bit. I'm fine." He wriggles a bit in Derek's hold and bites down the pain that ricochets through him as that line of fire flares briefly. "You can put me down now."

Derek ignores him completely in favor of firing daggers at Scott with his eyes.

"If you're so desperate to be your own alpha," He snarls and Stiles feels his whole body freeze in surprise because, wow, there's enough venom in his voice to kill Scott dead at least three over, "make sure you actually take care of your pack."

Scott clenches his jaw, hands curling into fists at his side. "What, like you did with Erica and Boyd?"

Derek grows even more tight and tense against Stiles and he can almost feel the muscles in his back rolling, getting ready to pounce on Scott and tear out his throat.

And Stiles prefers his best friend without his throat ripped out thank-you very much.

"Derek, look I'm fine, ok? It's not Scott's fault—" Stiles tries.

Derek's hands tighten around him and Stiles feels his mouth fall shut.

A moment of tense silence hangs over them all before Derek turns and begins walking away, Stiles still in his arms.

"Derek! Where are you—" Scott starts, making a total of one step towards them.  
"Hey! What are you—" Stiles flails, or at least tries to without irritating his back.

"I'm taking him home." Derek tells them both, an air of finality to his tone that neither of them object to, storming away from the clearing like it's personally offended him; which Stiles is willing to bet that at one point it probably has.

* * *

The drive to his house is tense and silent, neither of them saying a single word; Derek regarding him like a fox that broke into his henhouse and stole all the eggs: a tricky little bastard that'll disappear as soon as he takes his eye off of him. He keeps glancing over occasionally as though to make sure Stiles hasn't jumped out the window when he wasn't looking.

By the time they get there, Stiles is full of so much nervous energy that he has to stop his knee from bouncing lest Derek fix him with the evil eye and he opens the door to the Camaro the second it pulls onto his drive, stepping out as quickly as his scratch on his back will allow him.

"Well, thanks for the ride—" He steps towards the house and right into Derek, who grabs his wrist and drags him up to the house, letting go for only a moment to let him fumble for his key.

"Uh, it's ok, you really don't have to…" Stiles tries; only for Derek to silence him with another glare. He gives a roll of his eyes and opens the door, Derek following him in. He only just manages to lock the door when that firm grip on his wrist returns and Derek is tugging him upstairs towards his bedroom, which he stumbles into behind Derek; who then lets go of his wrist so he can close the door.

"Look," Stiles begins, "I appreciate it but—"

"Take off your shirt." Derek tells him.

Stiles feels his mouth go dry and he struggles to swallow, his eyebrows hiking up so high they almost fly off his face. "Uh, what?"

Derek gives a huff of impatience and rolls his eyes. "Not like that, take it off so I can see how bad it is."

Oh, yeah, right, because why on earth would Derek want him to—you know—  
"Look it's okay, I got this, you don't have to hang around because you feel guilty or…or whatever. I'm the one who got in the way of a homicidal Lamiae, it's not your fault." Stiles assures him, running a hand through his hair awkwardly.

"Take off your shirt." Derek repeats, unmoved, and Stiles feels a slight flush rise to his cheeks.

"Okay, I get it, just—just don't—not all of us were fucking sculpted out of marble by the gods, alright?" Abercrombie models collapse from low-self esteem whenever Derek walks by, which means people like probably him die of inadequacy. So yeah, he's not exactly dying to take his shirt off around him, all right? Sue him.

Derek just gives another one of those long-suffering sighs. "Stiles." But the corners of his mouth twitch just a little bit. And the sight does something funny to his stomach, though that just might be those fish tacos he and Scott had yesterday; he thought they smelled extra…fishy.

"Fine." He turns around and gently shrugs off his hoody before pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it on the ground. The cool air in his room makes him shiver slightly and he crosses his arms over his chest. "How's it look?"

"Fine." Derek replies, the terseness from the woods back in his tone once again, though that's hardly the plot twist of the year. "Do you have a first aid kit?"

Stiles nods. "Bathroom, down the hall, first door on your right."  
Derek leans forward and grips his wrist again, dragging him back down the hall, his ears deaf to Stiles' protests. "Hey! I can walk you know."

He tugs him into the bathroom, letting go of his wrist to forage around in the cupboards for the first aid kit while Stiles perches on the edge of the bathtub. He struggles not to burst out laughing when Derek finally locates the bright pink first aid kit, a gift from his friend Heather from when he was seven and told her he wanted to be a doctor, and turns towards him, determined expression fixed firmly on his face. Though, by the way Derek's face pinches slightly, he's pretty certain he didn't altogether succeed from keeping the smile from his face.

He places the first aid kit on the counter, reaching behind Stiles for the bathtub tap, and stopping when Stiles catches his wrist. "Wait, what are you doing?"

Derek gives a huff of impatience. "We have to clean it before we bandage it."

Stiles raises one of his eyebrows and gives a nod towards the first aid kit. "Can't you just use some of those anti-bacterial wipes?"

Derek pauses for a moment like he hadn't actually considered that angle before tugging his wrist out of Stiles' grip and opening the first aid kit with an obnoxiously loud zip. Meanwhile Stiles once more resumes the brave battle to refrain from smiling; who would've thought it'd be such a struggle to keep a straight face around Derek 'grumpy pants' Hale?

Derek grabs one of the packets from the first aid kit and Stiles turns around to cut on his back. He caught a glimpse of it in the mirror as he made his way over to the tub earlier; it looks shallow enough, thin too, it was probably only the very tip of the Lamiae's claws that caught him, so he figures that all things considered, he's probably pretty lucky.

He could be dead.

Derek wipes down the cut and the skin around it with the cloth and Stiles winces a bit at the slight sting, opening his mouth with a question to distract himself.

"So, I'm not going to turn into a Lamiae, am I?"

Derek stops wiping the cut and Stiles can feel him frowning. "What?"

"Well I figured since you can turn someone into a werewolf with a scratch then maybe—" Stiles babbles, trying to drown out the slight panic thrumming through his mind as the shock begins to wear off.

"No." Derek cuts him off, slightly exasperated, finishing wiping the cut and tossing the used cloth in the trash. "When it comes to—things like that—it's different…you can't get turned into a vampire with a scratch."

"Not even a snake vampire?" Stiles half jokes; the other half suddenly desperate to know.

"No." Derek repeats, more firmly this time. Stiles hears him rummage around in the first aid kit before pulling out what he needs and returning to Stiles' back. "Trust me, if you'd been turned—we'd know by now."

Stiles lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding as relief crashes over him, sending his shoulders slumping slightly. "Thank god, I wasn't really sure I could rock the whole, snake—body—thing, you know?" He gestures with his hands in beautiful imitation of a dying walrus.

"No, that's more Jackson's thing." Derek agrees, finishing up with his back and backing up himself.

"Wow, you made another joke. The world really is coming to an end." Stiles swings his legs back around and gets up, ignoring the slight twinge his back gives when he does so. He meets Derek's searching look with an awkward smile, ducking his head slightly in the silence that follows his words. "Uh, thanks, by the way, you didn't have to do that." He resists the immense urge to scramble for the nearest towel and shoves his hands in his pockets as they begin to shake; the reality of what almost happened tonight finally catching up with him.

"I guess, I'll uh, see you later then." He attempts to slip past Derek into the hall only to have Derek reach out and grab his forearm.  
Stiles shoots him a nervous look. "What are you—"  
"Calm down." Derek tells him, trying to catch Stiles' eyes with his own.

Stiles avoids his gaze and tugs uselessly on his arm. "I'm perfectly calm. Are you not seeing my face right now? I am like, the poster boy for being calm—"

"You're shaking." Derek tells him and Stiles notices belatedly that, yeah, the shaking has spread from his hand to his whole body. "And I can hear your heartbeat—"

"Yeah, well, sorry for freaking out." Stiles snaps, tugging harder at Derek's grip. "You try almost being Lamiae chow and then we'll talk." But his voice wavers slightly, some of the bite slipping from his tone, breathy panic taking its place. Every time he blinks he can see the arc of the Lamiae's claws extending towards them, and his skin tingles from the phantom of its hot breath against his neck; shoulders sore from where it held him down and prepared to sink its sharp teeth into his flesh. As it prepared to—

Derek tightens his grip on Stiles' arm gives a tug of his own. "Calm down." He repeats, firmer but not harsher. "Just take ten deep breaths."

Stiles exhales the first with a laugh, though panic still chases his words. "Who are you and what have you done with Derek?"

Derek remains silent and Stiles carefully draws in breath after breath, struggling slightly on the fifth one only for Derek to talk him through it. And holy hell who could've ever predicted that?

"Stiles you're safe. I promise that you're safe now, ok? I promise. It's over."

His voice is a low murmur, the hand on his arm transforming into less of a vice-like grip trapping him in place and more of a gentle source of comfort. And what makes the whole damn thing stranger is that Stiles believes him, the breath unsticking in his throat and flowing down to his desperate lungs. It gets easier after that, the breath flowing in and out of his lungs easily, until the shaking in his body gradually subsides. And by the time he fully comes back to himself the panic has completely faded away, replaced with a bone deep fatigue that sends his shoulders and eyelids slumping downwards.

"You should get some sleep." Derek tells him, tugging him towards his bedroom. Stiles puts up a half-hearted fight and grumbles like rusted old lawnmower, but that's mostly for show as he allows Derek to lead him down the hall like some blind old cat lady without the cats. Which, let's face it; he's pretty sure is his future in a nutshell. Just add in some werewolves to the mix and he's good.

Derek lets go of his arm as they enter his room and Stiles stumbles towards the bed before collapsing down on it with a sigh. "Oh precious bed, I am never leaving you alone again." He vows, sagging into the pillows with another bone-deep sigh.

He can practically hear Derek's raised eyebrow behind him but ignores it in favor of the snuggliness of his bed—and is that even a real word? It should be.

The sound of his window opening drags him out of his plans to get snuggliness added to the Webster dictionary and prompts him to open his eyes again.

"You can use the door you know." He tells Derek, who already has a foot out the window.  
"Go to sleep Stiles." Derek says, once again completely ignoring him.  
Which reminds him, these attempts to completely ignore him and Scott? They need to stop. They're like, half the reason any of the bullshit that happened tonight even happened in the first place.

"Ok, look." Stiles props himself up on his elbow and Derek reluctantly turns his head to meet his eyes. "Scott isn't going to say this, and I know that you're a fan of pretending whatever you don't like doesn't exist, and/or ensuring that it doesn't, but someone's got to. And since you kind of saved my ass today, this is me, saying it so you poor emotionally constipated werewolves don't have to."

He levels his best even glare at Derek. "Scott's always gonna want to have a part in protecting this town, and the people he loves in it."

"So?" Derek interrupts, raising his eyebrow as irritation thins his lips.

"_So,_ when something's going down, no matter how many times you tell us not to, we're going to get involved. Like, every single time, I guarantee you."

Derek opens his mouth to no doubt snarl something out and Stiles holds up his hand. "Don't snarl at me, I'm just telling it like it is."

"And your point?" Derek snarls anyway and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"My point, is that if we're all going to get involved anyway, don't you think it'd go a lot smoother and faster if we all worked together? Instead of you always trying to pretend that we don't exist?"

"Scott doesn't want to be part of the pack." Derek grumbles and if Stiles' arms didn't feel like noodles he would've thrown something at his head.

"So what? That doesn't mean you guys can't work together; aren't there any werewolf pack alliances out there?"

He takes Derek's sullen silence as an affirmative.

"So why can't you guys have one?" Stiles huffs out in frustration, really, no one is more stubborn than Derek Hale, except maybe himself.

"Alliances involve trust." Derek snaps, red flaring in his eyes, "You have to trust that when the going gets tough, they'll be there to back you up. And I'm not exactly eager to have an alliance with a pack that can't even be trusted to look after its own."

"Dude, I told you, what happened wasn't Scott's fault—" Stiles begins, running a hand through his hair in frustration.  
"Then whose fault was it?" He flinches back at Derek's harsh tone, taking note of his blazing red eyes. "You almost died tonight Stiles, if I had been just a second too late—do you _know_ what would've happened?"

"Yes Derek, I'm not an idiot." Stiles fires back, uneasiness beginning to crawl underneath his skin again at the reminder.

Derek looks like he wants to say more, but catches himself at the last moment, instead curling his hands into fists at his side and clenching his jaw. "Then quit acting like one."

Stiles opens his mouth, retort already half formed on his lips, only to blink and realize that he's alone in the room; a faint summer breeze wafting in through the open window and gently rustling his curtains.

He gives another aggravated sigh and thumps down into his pillows, grumbling underneath his breath about what a total inconceivable idiot Derek is, until the tendrils of sleep, washing over him like small waves, lull him into his dreams.

* * *

But his dreams are far from sweet.  
They pull at him, tug and tear at his flesh and mind as they hound him with long forgotten images, fuzzy memories, and a sweet voice crooning softly all around him.

"_Promise me, promise me that you'll always put yourself first, ok?"_

And when he wakes the next morning, sweat clinging to his body, as he swallows down a scream, he finds himself staring at his phone. Silently imploring it to ring, almost wishing that it had woken him up at 2:00 once again, and given him something to distract from the mess of emotions and memories churning with such stomach turning force within him.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey guys, sorry for the wait! Chapter two is here. ^^  
I hope you enjoy.

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf, that belongs to Jeff Davis. **_  
_**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, that belongs to Eric Kripke**_

**Warnings: coarse language, somewhat graphic death scene, minor character death, reactions to minor character death, violence.**

* * *

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,  
So do our minutes hasten to their end  
-Shakespeare, excerpt from Sonnet LX

* * *

Stiles doesn't like to brag about it, but he is one hell of a cook. Cooking used to be a thing he did with his mom, and after she—it was a way to feel closer to her; it helped sew up the gaping hole in his heart.

And all right, so he's maybe not at Iron Chef levels of awesomeness, but he's good enough that he's fairly certain Gordon Ramsay isn't going to motorcycle up to his front door with murder in his eyes anytime soon. And he's certainly good enough that his brownies are spoken of in the police headquarters with fevered reverence, and not because he puts any 'special ingredients' in there either. (Maybe it's a side effect of being raised by the Sheriff, but he's a firm believer in giving consensual hugs, not drugs.)

And so, for the annual police summer BBQ, virtually the only party that Beacon County seems to have a budget for these days (and that's after a majority (read: all) of the food and drinks have been provided by hardworking members of the Sheriff's office), Stiles whips out a few batches of his brownies, a pasta salad and some homemade veggie (for his dad; if he thinks he's skiving off his diet then he's got another thing coming) and beef burgers.

By the time he gets up to the spot on the preserve with the food, most of the officers have already arrived, with the exception of his Dad and whoever he has helping him. He walks over to the century old off-white plastic fold-up table with several trays balanced on top of one another in his hands, and feels the corners of his lips turn up in a smirk at the way several of the deputies noticeably sniff the air and how all of them seem to gravitate closer to him. When this time of year rolls around, the whole Sheriff's Office is his bitch.

After fending them all off with a serving spoon and some really erratic hand gestures for the better part of half an hour, his Dad and the rest of the officers finally join them. He feels his smirk grow as his Dad sniffs the air slightly, gravitating towards him as well.

"I see you brought brownies." He remarks; trying to shiftily sneak one out when he thinks Stiles isn't looking and Stiles hits his hand with a serving spoon.  
"You're only allowed two, or three at the most. And I made you veggie burgers, so I better not catch you trying to sneak one of the beef ones when my back is turned."

"Last time I checked, I was the parent in this relationship." His Dad grumbles half-heartedly and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, well, when you stop sneaking milkshakes during your shift, then you can be the parent."

His Dad doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed about his flagrant abuse of his diet plan and simply chuckles. "Unfortunately it doesn't work like that kiddo. Now quit guarding your stash like some fifty-year-old lunch lady and scoot."

Stiles puts his serving spoon down with a huff and heads down the table towards the drinks, stopping just before them and pulling out his phone to see if Scott had texted him back yet. They'd been discussing the clusterfuck of a situation that happened about a week ago, whereupon Stiles had been in danger of no longer existing on this earthly plain.

Apparently, the three amigos (Scott, Allison and Lydia) had been sidetracked fairly early on when they ran into one extremely grumpy and (according to Scott) more than slightly homicidal Derek Hale and a sullen Isaac. The two sides had argued while Stiles had wandered farther and farther on. Which lead to Scott managing to lose Stiles' scent and having to take off after Derek when the Alpha picked something up with his 'Super Super-senses.' Which had meant that he'd arrived at their little Lamiae-Human-Alpha dance party _way later_ than originally planned, but thankfully in time for him to smoke the Lamiae before it smoked Stiles and Derek.

Who, speaking of, Stiles hadn't talked to since tall, dark, and brooding had vanished out his window and back into the shadows whence he came. And who Scott was extra pissed at now, the frustration at his incompetence taking a back seat to his resentment at being ordered around. Which didn't exactly make him any more open to the whole alliance deal than Derek had been when Stiles tried to convince him.

Stiles sighs, these fucking werewolves need to get their heads out of their asses; he isn't getting paid enough (or at all actually) to deal with this shit.

He puts his phone away and reaches out for the jug only to have a bright red cup thrust right underneath his nose, the pale pink liquid swishing hazardously within it, his favorite shirt in the danger zone for being sloshed.

"Here," A cheery voice encourages, and the cup retracts slightly to reveal a petite girl with a charming smile and deep, flowing brown hair that reminds him vaguely of a river of chocolate. Her green eyes bore into his eyes with an intensity that has him shifting back a little bit, uncomfortable itch rising up within his skin as he's reminded of the Lamiae's gaze. "Did you want a drink?"

Stiles blinks and manages to ease the tension from his limbs enough that he can take the glass from her. "Uh, yeah, thanks?"

She gives a little giggle and shifts closer slightly. "You're welcome."

Now, normally Stiles would be all about attractive girls wanting to get close to him (like, really, really all about it), cause hell knows when he's going get his next chance, but there's something lingering in those eyes that he can't quite place. And he doesn't know whether or not he's just projecting the residual terror of the Lamiae on any girl who comes close to him, or whether that nagging sensation that pulls on his gut at the sight of her is the same one he felt whenever Matt "They murdered me" Daehler wandered into his vision.

Either way, he takes a step back with stutter of "Uh—?" managing to bump into someone behind him while he's at it because he's just that graceful. He turns around, apology half-formed on his lips before it dies away in a yelp of terror as the same girl's face stares back at him.

"Whoa!" He cries, flailing his arms as he jumps backwards. "How'd you—?"

He spins around to see the girl where he left here, smug grin lighting up her face and he glances back at the other girl, realization finally dawning on him.  
"Twins." He sighs in relief. "You guys are just…twins. Oh, thank god." He murmurs the last part under his breath, cause hell if his hand hadn't already been crawling into his jean pocket to text Scott about the latest monster to show up in Beacon Hills.

The two girls laugh, the sound grating on his ears and raw nerves and he's this close to throwing his drink at one or both of them. But he knows he won't, not only because his Dad is just a few feet away (though that is a pretty big (huge) part of it), but also because he likes to think he has a little more class than that thank-you very much.

"Alright Cassie, Carrie, that's enough. Why don't you stop tormenting him and head on over to the burger lineup?"

The two girls and Stiles glance up to meet the form of Deputy Parrish, arms crossed over his chest and eyebrow raised as he takes in the three teens in front of him.

The girls pout and grumble under their breaths as they stalk away from Stiles and head over to where the other Deputies have begun lining up for burgers. Deputy Parrish watches them go and then turns back to smiles, a sympathetic smile spreading across his lips. "Sorry about that."

Stiles shrugs and shakes his head, relief tumbling through his veins at their absence.  
"Don't be. Thanks for getting rid of them, though."

Deputy Parrish gives a shrug of his own and makes his way over to Stiles.  
"No problem. I've had to send them packing a couple of times this week already; who knows, they might take your spot as prime troublemaker yet." He teases and shoots Stiles a smile as he reaches behind him for the punch. Stiles moves aside and glances back over to where the girls are standing; poking old Deputy Jarvis in the back and then pretending they haven't done it. "Who are they?"

"One of the counsel members' nieces far as I've been told." Deputy Parrish replies, muttering the next part with a slight shake of his head. "Which apparently means the whole Sheriff's office has to keep an eye on them while they're here."

"They're not from Beacon Hills?" Stiles asks, half hoping that Deputy Jarvis will snap and punch the smug giggles from their lips. What? He doesn't have that much class.

"They're in visiting from New York," Parrish replies, before offering his drink towards Stiles, "here. I wouldn't trust anything that they handed to you."  
Stiles gives the cup in his hand a dubious glance. "Yeah, you're probably right."

He grimaces and trades his cup for Parrish's. "Thanks."

"Always happy to help out one of Beacon Hill's fine citizens." Deputy Parrish replies as he dumps out the drink Stiles handed to him onto the ground before sending him a wink. "Especially if that citizen happens to be my Boss' son."

Stiles feels a smirk tug at the corners of his lips. "Hate to break it to you 'pretty eyes' but my Dad doesn't give promotions to the people that help me out." He pauses for a moment, pretending to consider his words before speaking. "You're actually more likely to be demoted."

Parrish gives a mock sigh of disappointment. "Well, there goes my brilliant plan."  
He turns his head back to Stiles, the corners of his lips twitching slightly. "'Pretty eyes'?"

Stiles feels a flush crawl up his neck as he realizes what he said. "It's uh, your nickname, at the station. Everyone uses it."

Parrish gives him a knowing look, a smirk fully spreading across his face. "I'm sure they do."

Stiles takes a big gulp from his cup, eyes determined to look anywhere but Parrish's.  
Smooth Stiles, smooth, no wonder you're still a virgin.

"So, have you got the hang of Beacon Hills yet?" He asks, playing with the plastic cup in his hands for a moment.

Parrish sighs, "Still getting used to it, it's a bit of a jump from New York to be honest." He sends Stiles a sheepish smile, running a hand through his hair at his next words. "Thanks for helping me out the other day."

Stiles had come to the station to drop off his Dad's lunch, and on his way back from his Office had found Deputy Parrish glaring at the Coke machine like if he stared at it hard enough his drink would magically fall out. Stiles had taken pity on his poor soul and shown him the trick to getting the ancient relic to work, sitting next to him after and babbling on about anything and everything while he drank his Coke. If only because Parrish kept glancing at the machine every now and then like he was planning on firing a few rounds of his gun into it after his shift.

Stiles shrugs. "It's no problem. All of the new deputies have trouble with it when they first start. Everyone's pretty sure it's been there since the dawn of time."

Parrish nods. "Still, thanks for helping me out; I was having a bit of a rough day."

Stiles opens his mouth to respond when something out of the corner of his eyes catches his attention and he feels his jaw nearly hit the ground.

"Is that my dad getting a beef burger when I specifically told him he had to get veggie?" Stiles asks.  
"You know, I do believe it is." Parrish responds, a suppressed laugh chasing his words. Stiles gives a sigh of frustration and shoves up the arms of his hoody with a shake of his head. "I swear, every time I turn my back—"

"Hey," Parrish calls after him, hand on his arm pulling him back slightly, don't you think you should cut him a little slack?"

Stiles looks at him likes he's grown another head. "But—you're all about healthy eating!"

Parrish nods slowly. "Yeah, but there's room in healthy eating to have cheat days, you know? And he's been working really hard lately—"  
"Which is exactly why he doesn't need to eat something smothered in grease." Stiles argues, stress and artery clogging food were going to place his Dad that much closer to his inevitable heart attack.

"He never eats anything smothered in grease, you make sure of that." Parrish tells him gently. "Just let him have today, ok? Then you can get him right back on his diet tomorrow."  
Stiles wavers, watching as his Dad's face light up with glee as Deputy Evans hands him his burger, making his way over to the condiments section with a spring in his step.

"I'll give you all the healthy food recipes I picked up in New York." Parrish promises and Stiles feels his resolve shatter with a sigh as he turns back to the Deputy.

"Alright, deal." It's the small things in life that matter after all, and if this puts his Dad in a good mood than he might not be so quick to jump to conclusions when he next finds Scott and Stiles at a crime scene. Though that's a pretty big might.

A load groan echoes through the clearing and Stiles stiffens, turning with Deputy Parrish towards the sound, all good humor suddenly flying from the air; making it heavy and hard to breathe through.

A man stumbles through the woods, and Stiles hears the click of fifty or so deputies drawing their guns amid the gasps as he struggles to make out his features through all the red. He blinks slightly to clear his vision through the white noise cloaking his mind and takes in the gaping holes in the man's body, as he dimly hears his cup fall towards the ground.

The man's eyes meet his and he sees the agonizing pain ripping and clawing through the man's body burning in them as he takes another staggering step forwards. His mouth flaps uselessly and Stiles feels his eyes struggling to follow its movements, something hard and cold slithering around his lungs and restricting theirs. The man falls towards the ground, his knees hitting first as his hands scramble in the air, still full of a desperate energy as he struggles to hold on to life.

And he doesn't want to see when the man's body twitches and the struggle and desperation and life falls away from his eyes. As he slumps to the ground and the remaining breath in his lungs escapes along with the light in his eyes; but he can't seem to look away. He feels like he's back in that garage, watching as his jeep came closer and closer to that mechanic, paralyzed, as utter helplessness and fear courses through his veins.

And then darkness covers his eyes, blocking out the sight of the man and drawing him from his memories. His hands scrabble towards it, lost in a wave of primal fear.

"Stiles!" Deputy Parrish's voice echoes in his ears and his hands still. "Stiles it's alright; just don't look." Stiles tries to pretend he doesn't hear how the voice cracks and latches onto Deputy Parrish's other arm, his arms desperate for something to hold onto, for something to ground him. He doesn't see it, but he hears the man hit the ground, can almost feel when the breath finally leaves the man's body, feels the heady, guilty relief that settles over them all prickling over his skin.

Then he thinks, in an oddly abstract way, that this is probably the most interesting BBQ they've ever had since someone tricked Deputy Michaels into showing up in drag.

At that thought a more than slightly hysterical laugh bubbles out of his throat and into the clearing.

And it keeps coming, no matter how much Deputy Parrish whispers in his ears that it's going to be all right, everything's fine, just breathe Stiles. Because its not fine, there's a man lying barely ten feet away that was a living human being a moment ago and is now a cold corpse. And his the skin on his neck tingles in remembrance of the Lamiae's breath and his face recalls the feeling of Gerard's fist connecting with it and he can't—he can't—he needs—

He vaguely hears his Dad tell Parrish to take him out of there and distantly, as though he's no longer in control of his body, feels the gentle tug on his arm as he's being pulled towards his jeep.

* * *

Parrish stays with him until his Dad gets back, wrapping him in the bright orange shock blanket that he grabbed from the back of his Dad's cruiser before they set off, and sitting beside him. He jumps up when his Dad comes in, like he's been caught stealing cookies out of the cookie jar and not watching the food network. Stiles hears catch vague whispers of their conversation before his Dad bids Parrish goodbye and takes his place on the couch beside him. "Stiles—"

"Did you find out who it was?" Stiles asks before his Dad can finish, because there is more of a chance that Derek will confess his love for pink fluffy bunnies than whatever happened to that guy was done by another human being and not the latest thing that crawled out of hell through the portal underneath Beacon Hills. (Or it might be in one of those aforementioned abandoned warehouses that they have way, _way,_ too fucking many of.) But the point is, a monster will mean Scott will get involved, which means Stiles will have to use his mad research skills. Which means it doesn't matter if his hand is still shaking slightly and won't fucking stop, he needs info, like, yesterday. And fuck that would've be so, so, welcome.

The Sheriff pauses for a moment, watching Stiles carefully. "Yeah, it was uh, Mr. Morenz."

Vague images pass through his minds' eye, fuzzy faces, and bright sunlight gleaming off the glass of a storefront window, the small candy shop that Mr. Morenz owns in town. He chases the memory of the sharp tang of his favorite childhood candy with his tongue as his hands remember the feeling of his mother's enclosing them as she lead him into the store. How pretty her smile looked in the sunlight, and how carefree his Dad's eyes were back then; the only crinkles on his face from happiness, not stress.

He nods to show he heard and keeps his eyes focused on peppers, currently being sliced and diced into a million pieces, on the TV while he tries to sift through the whirl and tumble of images in his mind to find his next question.

"Stiles—" His Dad begins again and stops, likely searching for the right words to fill up the empty silence between them. Stiles feels a lump form in his throat and he struggles to swallow it down. Really, diced peppers should not make him this emotional.

"I want you to know that I'm proud of you." His Dad settles on finally, but Stiles still can't bring himself to look at him. "I know that—you and I—we haven't exactly been seeing eye-to-eye lately. And I want you to know that, no matter what, you're always going to be my son, and I'll always love you."

Stiles nods again, but his hands have started shaking more.  
"I know. I love you too, Dad."

There's another moment of heavy silence between them before the Sheriff lets out a sigh and extends his arms towards Stiles. "Come here."

Stiles settles himself into his arms, Stilinski hugs are the best kind of hugs, and he isn't going to pass up his chance to get one; but he still keeps his eyes fixed on the TV, though he no longer sees the diced peppers anymore.

"Were there things…missing?" Stiles asks and his Dad's arms tighten around him, and he doesn't want to know but he needs the info. Every little bit helps narrow that imminent Google search. No matter how hard it is to force the words past his lips.

"Stiles—"

"There were holes." Stiles interrupts again, his voice cracking on his next words, and it needs to fucking stop that, like right now, but it doesn't, "He had holes—"

"Shhh. Don't think about it anymore." His Dad tells him, pulling him tighter into the hug. Stiles hesitates for a moment, struggling to hold onto his need for answers before the breath he was holding escapes and his head drops down on his Dad's shoulder. He lets his eyes fall closed, but the images still play in a silent loop on the back of his eyelids; the strong _'lup-dub'_ of his Dad's heartbeat the only sound filling his ears.

* * *

His Dad can only stay for so long, and eventually he has to head back to the station, but he makes Stiles call Scott before he leaves to make sure that he won't be on his own. Stiles spends the hour or so before Scott arrives cleaning up the mess from his baking that he had left in the kitchen sink, struggling to focus his attention on that and not let wander back to clearing.

He hears the doorbell ring and makes his way over to the front door, pulling it open to reveal Scott, worried puppy dog expression fully fixed in place, and beside him Lydia, Allison and Isaac.

He feels his face scrunch up in confusion as he takes them all in. "Did I miss something?" He pretends to glance back inside his house. "Is there some sort of party going on in my house that I don't know about?"

Lydia rolls her eyes. "You know, I don't think I can remember when I had last went to a party that didn't end in someone being murdered, or psychotic werewolves being brought back to life." She moves past Stiles into the house. "Please tell me you have some decent tea in this house."

"Tea? So I guess we've moved past the whole wolfs-bane-punch phase, huh?" Stiles calls after her, moving slightly so that Scott, Allison and Isaac can make their way in.  
Lydia sends him a dirty look over her shoulder as she flounces into the kitchen, and Allison follows after her. Stiles turns to Scott to share a look with him but is surprised to find Scott already staring intently at him, and Stiles feels guilt crawl all over him at the sight of the worry weighing down his best friend's eyes.

"Scott—" He starts, but is cut off when Scott draws him into a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around Stiles like he's scared he'll disappear the minute he lets go.

"Dude, I swear," Scott says in his ear, but his voice cracks slightly, "you're like a trouble magnet."

Stiles rolls his eyes and struggles to talk around the lump in his throat. "Dude, Beacon Hills is the trouble magnet, not me. I just happen to have a propensity for being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Scott laughs, "Yeah," and gives him one final pat on the back before pulling back from the hug and not-so-surreptitiously wiping his eyes with the back of his arm.

* * *

A few minutes later finds them all in the kitchen with cups of lavender honey tea in front of them that Lydia brought herself, as though she had already known that Stiles' cupboards would be severely lacking in the tea department. Hey, neither his Dad nor him drink tea, so what's the point of buying any? (Though he has a feeling that might change soon because, damn, this stuff is good)

He takes a sip of his tea and nods towards Isaac. "Not to be rude, dude, but what are you doing here exactly?" He nods towards Lydia and Allison too. "You guys too. Last I checked the only person I called was Scott."

"Isaac was with me when you called." Scott tells him, taking a sip of the tea and wrinkling his nose slightly at the taste. Well, Stiles reasons, tea can't be everyone's cup of tea. "And then I called Allison and Lydia."

"Okay." Stiles says slowly, "Why?"

Lydia raises his eyebrow at him. "Because we're your friends too, idiot."

And Stiles nearly chokes on his tea, because, what parallel universe did he slip into that has _Lydia Martin_ freely admitting to being his _friend_?

"Plus we figured we'd better start figuring out whatever did this before they do it again." Isaac jumps in and Stiles feels an irrational wave of disappointment flutter through him, but he shakes it off.

He turns to look at Isaac. "We? Does that mean Derek's on board with the whole alliance thing?"

Isaac's frowns and shakes his head. "No. Derek is still trying to perfect the art of having his head up his ass, but I'm here." He hunches into himself slightly, as though he's waiting for someone to laugh at that, to ask him why he'd think that he could be useful in any way and it hurts something in Stiles to look at. And fills him with a desire to punch one Coach Lahey.

But that particular demon is already dead, if not completely buried, so instead Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes. "Thank-you. At least _one_ werewolf around here has their head out of their ass." He shoots a meaningful look at Scott and pretends he doesn't see the tension flee Isaac's body at his words, the slight surprise that lights up his features for a moment before he squashes it down; though a slight smile tugs at the corner of his lips and banishes his frown.

Scott crosses his arms and gives a low growl that drags Stiles' attention back to him. "I told you; Derek wouldn't work with me if I was the only other werewolf left on earth." He glowers down at his tea as though he can see Derek's face reflected in it. "And the same goes for me."

"I'm not exactly that eager to team up with Derek either." Allison says, clenching her jaw and gripping the cup in her hands with much more force than necessary. And yeah, that look on her face says she means business, and seeing as Stiles prefers going through life without various arrows sticking out of his body, he drops the subject.

"Alright," Stiles says, straightening up and cracking his knuckles, "then lets get to work on finding out whatever the ever loving fuck this thing is and figure out how to kill it. Preferably without me ending up in the line of fire this time." There are only so many near-death experiences his heart can take.

* * *

After four hours of Google searches and scrolling through the Argent's bestiary, they find themselves no closer to figuring out what this thing is than when they started and Stiles calls break time because a) his stomach is growling so much that it makes it hard to concentrate, b) Isaac and Scott's stomachs are growling much louder than his and they both look decidedly too grumpy for the safety of all the vulnerable humans in the room, and c) Allison and Lydia look like they're five seconds away from either throwing their laptop out a window, or eating it.

So he orders delivery from a nearby pizza place and puts on a movie after it finally arrives. (Seriously, he thought Isaac and Scott might try to eat his coffee table at one point.) They all settle onto the couch in his living room, Stiles finding himself squished between Scott and Isaac, practically inhaling their slices of Pepperoni, Cheese, Hawaiian, and Mediterranean pizza; oblivious to the first twenty minutes of the movie.

And so, when they finally stop inhaling their pizza and wipe the sauce from their chins, everybody, with the exception of Stiles, has no idea what the hell is going on. Which makes it no surprise when Stiles glances around about thirty minutes later and notes that the only person still awake beside himself is Lydia. Scott and Isaac are slumped on his shoulders, drooling and snoring, and Allison is curled up in a ball on the other end of the couch beside Lydia.

"Weaklings." Stiles whispers to Lydia and she rolls her eyes and hums her agreement, her eyes still locked on the movie, and after a moment Stiles turns back towards it too, turning the volume down slightly.

"You know," Lydia says five minutes later, breaking the silence once more. And Stiles turns back to look at her, "when I was in the second grade, I had a crush on this guy named Aoran Summers."

"Um, ok?" Stiles says, because that was more than a little random and he's not entirely sure where this train of conversation is going, or why it was started.

"He was really cute," Lydia says; nostalgia creeping into her tone, "you know, blonde hair, blue eyes, stereotypical crush material."

"Right." Stiles says, still not sure how to navigate this conversation.

"Anyway, so Valentines Day came around and I had spent all weekend making this card for him asking him to be my boyfriend, like it had glitter and little fake jewels and everything," She shrugs, "and at recess he tore it up right in front of me."

An explosion on the screen times itself perfectly with Stiles' jaw dropping.  
Ouch. He really doesn't know what to say, Lydia Martin, being rejected? It was inconceivable. Who could say no to that beautiful strawberry red hair and those soft lips?

"And yeah," Lydia continues anyway, "it sucked, pretty much broke my fragile eight year old heart, but it let me move on, you know? Let me fix my attention on someone who wanted it."

She turns to look at him them, and he feels something clench in his gut as he realizes what's coming. "I'm not going to be a bitch and tear your valentine up in front of you again, like I did that time in third grade, but this is me, being your Aoran Summers. Again. Stiles, I'm sorry, and I _really_ am, but I just don't like you that way. And the chances of me ever liking you that way are nonexistent."

Stiles feels his mouth go dry, his heart thumping painfully, and he opens his mouth to speak through the persistent chalky taste on his taste buds but Lydia beats him to it.

"And I know that this might seem like a bitchy thing to do, considering what happened today and everything…everything that's happened lately. But…but that's why I have to do it, you know? _Because_ of what happened."  
She shakes her head and some of that strawberry hair that Stiles had grown to love so much comes loose from her bun. "You've wasted enough of your time clinging to the idea of us together and you and I both know that time is—" She laughs, but Stiles notes that there's not an awful lot of humor in it. "Is in rather short supply in this town. Every day could be your last here; if Derek hadn't heard you scream the other night, you wouldn't—"  
She swallows thickly, struggling to regain some control. "You wouldn't even be here. And I don't want to be responsible for you wasting your life anymore. "

She fixes him with a stern look. "So stop wasting your time on me, and get out there and find someone who likes you back."

Stiles snorts to cover up the small cracking sound his heart is making, and his surprise at how little this actually hurts. Sure, the rejection stings, an ugly red slap mark upon his heart, but there's no soul-destroying pain at Lydia's words; which is a confusing to him, seeing as he's had a crush on this girl since the third fucking grade.

Maybe he's just numb right now, experiencing some sort of backflow, and the pain will all come crashing down on his later, when he's had a chance to fully process her words.

Or maybe it's that the soul-destroying pain already happened a few weeks ago, as he watched her run into an officially de-lizarded-Jackson's arms. The way the two had clutched tight to each other, their faces so open, and vulnerable, with their emotions splayed across for everyone and their mother to see. It made Stiles distinctly uncomfortable, to see the masks of the normally reticent power couple slip for more than just a second; it almost made it seem like they were naked. Like this was something secret, private, that they shouldn't be watching.

And, yeah it hurt. But you know what? The pain wasn't soul-destroying. Cause that makes it sound very sci-fi and distant, like it comes from the lips of an overdramatic actress on the stage; milking her death scene so much that it becomes laughable and no longer sad. It just hurt. His whole chest feel like it had been suddenly emptied out and there was nothing left but that deep hurt; etching itself into his muscles, into his very bones. And his throat felt tight, as though someone had their hands around it and was slowly choking him as his eyes burned with stupid, useless, fucking tears.

So maybe that night, he finally began to nail the lid of that coffin into place, even while his mouth and mind kept protesting that he hadn't really given up; that there was still a chance for Lydia to change her mind. A chance that one-day she might look at him like she had looked at Jackson in that warehouse. He just needed a little more time.

But Lydia was, as she usually was, right. Time was a thing that was constantly running out in this town, people's hourglasses smashing on the cold hard concrete long before they were supposed to run out of sand. So maybe this out-right refusal was the final nail in the coffin lid that he had been hammering in place for weeks.

And that was why it didn't hurt as much.

"Yeah," He says when he finally breaks the silence hanging between the two of them, trying not to let the emotional turmoil sneak through, but his voice comes out a lot more bitter than he meant it to as he rolls his eyes, "because those people aren't in short supply or anything; or so far _non-existent_."

"Last time I checked, Derek was still in existence." Lydia points out, smirking slightly.

Stiles looks at her like she's just jumped up and expressed her passionate desire to become a flamingo. "Derek? Are you fucking kidding me? He hates my guts! And he's, uh, a guy?"

Lydia waves that particular concern away. "Stiles, come on, I've seen the way you look at him. And Danny told me that you asked him whether or not he found you attractive."

Stiles feels his face flush a dangerous shade of red. "That was—I just—But I—I like girls." He really shouldn't have to explain this to the girl that had just _rejected him_.

Lydia pauses for a moment, looking over him carefully before speaking again, her tone far more gentle this time. "You can like both, you know."

Stiles stares at her, struggling to find the words to sum up the weird summersault his stomach does at her words, and the relief that trickles through his veins. And yeah, he knows that people can be bisexual all right? It's just…it's different when people tell you that it's okay for _you_ to be.

And then he finds his mind wandering to Derek's muscled physique and how his mouth sometimes goes dry in the presence of it, and Danny's gorgeous dimples and Deputy Parrish's 'pretty eyes'; and the heat that stirs in his lower abdomen sometimes, that he'd always just passed off as something he ate, at the sight of them. And he feels the pieces clicking together, realization slowly starting to dawn in his mind, and his lips are moving before he's fully processed the words falling off his tongue. "You can?"

Lydia nods, sending him a soft smile. "You can."

He pauses for a moment, the words, _Well then, that's good because_ _I think there's more than a significant chance, like say about the same probability as ice in winter and sun in summer, that that might be me_, hovering on the tip of his tongue; in danger of falling past his teeth, but he swallows that down with a shake of his head.

"Look, even if I did, it doesn't even matter. Derek makes regular threats to my safety and continued existence. What the hell makes you think that he—"

"From what Scott told me, he seemed pretty concerned with your continued existence the other night." Lydia tells him, smirk only growing on her face.

Stiles waves his hands around uselessly. "That's only because he has a guilt complex the size of fucking moon and I got scratched when I pushed him out of the way of the homicidal snake-vamp."

"And why'd you push him out of the way?" Lydia asks, raising her eyebrow knowingly.

"Because he was about to get speared by the fucking thing and I'm actually a decent human being?" Stiles suggests, shrugging slightly.

"He heals though, you don't." Lydia points out shaking her head. "What made you think it was a good idea to shove him out of the way?"

"I wasn't thinking anything I just—I saw the thing flying towards us and I just— moved." Stiles tries, but it sounds lame even in his ears. "Fuck knows that no matter how much of an asshole Derek is, Beacon Hills is a fucking death trap and we need all of the help we can get."

Lydia goes quiet at that but Stiles can't seem to stop talking, mind wandering back to that night at the pool, fatigue weighing down his limbs as he struggled to keep them both above the water. "Besides, he doesn't trust anybody, and trust is kind of an integral part of a relationship."

Lydia gives another shrug. "You'll just have to show him how trustworthy you are," She tells him, turning back towards the screen as a slight yawn escapes her lips. "You'll eventually win him over."

Stiles snorts and gives a yawn of his own, settling further back into the coach. "Yeah, right." Cause, really, the chances of that happening? Are even less likely than Beacon Hills' body count going down.

* * *

His dreams are restless again, violent images twisting and turning in a bizarre cycle. Images of the Mr. Morenz's red-washed body, Gerard's sneer, and the whispers of the mechanics aborted cry for help growing painfully sharp one moment, to the point where he thinks he can't bear it and almost tears himself out of sleep, only to fade away the next.

He's almost relieved when morning finally comes and his Dad starts shaking him awake, though the prospect of explaining to his Dad why there are two girls and a recent runaway sleeping on his couch when he only gave the ok for Scott to come over has him rethinking ever waking up again. But with a particularly vicious shake, Stiles forces his eyes to crack open, explanation half formed on his lips—  
Only to die away as soon as he glances up expecting his Dad's eyes and meets Derek's instead.

"Dude, what the he—mmph!" He protests, as Derek's hand covers his mouth.  
"Quiet!" Derek hisses, "Are you trying to wake up the whole neighborhood?"  
Stiles glares at him and mumbles something through Derek's hand that Derek most definitely picks up, if his eye roll is any indication.

Stiles glances to his side and notes that the others are still all out cold, and thinks that it would probably be best for everyone if Derek was not the first thing that Scott saw when he woke up. He inclines his head towards the kitchen, miming something with his hands that makes Derek's features screw up in confusion before some realization dawns on his features and he removes his hand from Stiles' mouth. Backing up enough to let him get to his feet and lead the way.

Once they're safely in the kitchen and Stiles has closed the door leading to the living room, he turns to Derek. "As I was saying, dude, what the hell are you doing here? And how did you even get in?"

"You left the window in your room unlocked." Derek replies, unconcerned that he practically admitted to breaking—well maybe not breaking—but definitely entering the Sheriff's house. Like, where do you even begin?

Stiles rolls his eyes, and goes over to the fridge to pour himself a glass of orange juice, glancing at the clock as he does so. 6:30. Wow, so much for sleeping in this summer. "I hope you know that if someone leaves a window unlocked, it's not automatically an invitation for you to break into their house."  
"Yeah, as it happens, I do. But you can bet your ass that whatever killed that guy on the preserve yesterday doesn't." Derek snaps.

Stiles freezes for a moment as he processes what Derek said. "Shit."

"Exactly." Derek states, and his entire body is tense, so tight and still that it might as well be stone. "Next time you try to get yourself killed, make sure my Beta isn't sleeping on your couch."

His heart gives a painful throb that he blames Lydia for; trying to make him think that Derek cared more about him than he did gum that stuck to the bottom of his shoes.

"Don't worry, next time he stays out past curfew, I'll make sure to call you so you can come pick him up." Stiles replies, setting his glass down on the counter with far more force than necessary.

"Or you could get Scott to stop trying to steal my Beta." Derek returns, stepping closer towards Stiles, and sounding like a petulant child crying to teacher about the mean bully that stole his favorite toy. Stiles snorts at the mental image and Derek grows even tenser. Good.

"You realize how ridiculous that sounds don't you? Scott isn't trying to steal Isaac, Derek, your beta has just realized the brilliance of my whole alliance idea where you have failed to." Stiles turns, and reaches for the fridge, but Derek catches his arm and pulls him back, and irritation bubbles to the surface of his skin; he feels like a fraught wire, microfibers from snapping. He just wants to drink his fucking orange juice, is that too much to ask?

"Don't lie to me." Derek growls. "I know what he's planning, and I want you to tell him to back off before I make him."

"You know, despite whatever preconceived notions you've constructed in that little Alpha brain of yours, I am not the messenger boy between you an Scott." Stiles spits out, meeting Derek's gaze steadily. "If you've got a problem with Scott, take it up with him yourself."  
"You don't tell me what to do." Derek snarls and Stiles hears one of those little microfibers snaps.

"Real witty Derek, tell me, is that the only fucking comeback you have?" Stiles snarls right back, tugging his arms free of Derek's grip with a viciousness that has the Alpha stumbling back slightly. "Every fucking time you show up it's always, Stiles do this, Stiles do that, bend over backwards more Stiles, I didn't hear your spine snap.

And every time I tell you to grow a pair and do something yourself? You pull up this bullshit about me not ordering you around! That, or you threaten to rip my throat out. Or hold my laptop out my fucking window." Cause yeah, he hasn't forgiven him for that yet.

"I'm the Alpha—" Derek growls, eyes glowing red and Stiles is gonna stop him right there.

"Which doesn't automatically mean you have to be a complete and utter asshole, you complete and utter asshole." Stiles throws his hands up in the air, anger growing exponentially as frustration and a slight tinge of hurt make their way into the mix. "I mean, did you ever stop to consider that maybe sometimes, being shaken awake by a werewolf and yelled at for forgetting to lock my window is not how I want to start my morning?"

"You know, funnily enough, I have more important things to do with my time." Derek snarks, and it makes Stiles want to throw something at him. "Like figuring out what the fuck this new monster is. So tell me what—"

"No." Stiles cuts him off, because it's 6:30 in the morning, of the day after he just saw someone die for the second fucking time. And trust him, one time was enough for a lifetime. And he doesn't want to go through the whole process of explaining what had happened in that clearing again. And he's angry that Derek would ask that of him, that he would be so oblivious to his…to his fucking feelings alright? Because how can Derek justify making that big stink about how he never cares about anyone but himself and then treating him like this? How is that fair? Hypocrite, thy name is Derek.

Derek's face floods with disbelief. "What do you mean 'no'?"

"Surely even someone as socially disconnected as you should know what 'no' means." Stiles returns before nodding towards his front door. "Now get out of my house."

"Do I need to remind you that someone has died?" Derek snarls and that is so fucking unfair, trying to turn this whole situation around on Stiles like it's his fault. When if Derek had actually gotten his head out of his ass and shown up last night, he would already know what happened out there.

"Actually Derek, strangely enough, I worked that part out myself—" Stiles blinks and Derek is right up in his face again.

"Then stop acting like a spoiled brat and tell me what you know."

And that, that loud, snapping sound right there? That was Stiles, finally losing it.

"You're calling me a spoiled brat? Me?" And Stiles didn't know his voice could carry this much heat, and he's so angry that he's almost shaking. "Who's the one who refuses to get over himself and work with us instead of against us? Who's the one who acts like the whole fucking worlds out to get him? Who's the one who turns his nose up at everyone even when he needs them, who—who just orders people around like they're nothing. Like they're trash? Cause that sure as hell isn't me."

Derek flinches slightly at his words, but Stiles keeps going before he can get another word in edgewise. "Cut the fucking bullshit, Derek. We've already had this same song and dance, and personally I don't want to be standing here when another Lamiae or whatever the fuck it is that's out there now shows up to let me prove you wrong." Stiles spits. "So, what do you wanna know? Where, when, how bloody he was, how many holes he had in his body?"

How the funny, kind, Latino guy that used that run a candy store came crawling out of the woods in immeasurable agony, and died still scrambling for life?

Stiles tries to keep his tone even when he speaks again. "Sorry though, afraid I can't tell you why. You'll have to look somewhere else for that."

Derek looks stunned, and Stiles swallows down his surprise that Derek has an expression other than grumpy, clenching his hands into fists tightly to try and stop them from shaking, glaring back at him as a heavy, thick silence descends over the too of them. A silence that is quickly broken by the kitchen door flying open and Scott running in, Isaac following him.

Stiles clears his throat, but doesn't look away from Derek. "Nice of you guys to join the party." And when his next speaks his eyes silently dare Derek to challenge him. "Actually, it's really good that you're here Scott, Derek has a message for you."

"Stiles—" Derek starts, but Scott cuts him off.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He demands, storming into the kitchen to stand protectively in front of Stiles, Isaac flanking him.

Derek stares back at the three of them, looking almost unnerved for a fraction of a second before shoving that down and straightening up. "Looking for my Beta."

Scott raises his eyebrow before nodding towards Isaac. "Well, you found him. What's your message?"

Derek looks vaguely constipated and Stiles waits for him to make his excuses and final biting remarks before he takes off. But instead he steadies himself and puts that lofty look back on his face. And the next words that he growls lowly, grudgingly, have Stiles nearly falling over, and by the looks on Scott and Isaac's faces Stiles wouldn't be surprised if they collapsed too.

"I want to form an alliance."

* * *

Lydia takes Allison home (she was, not surprisingly, really not on board with the whole alliance thing when they told her about it) and Stiles goes upstairs to shower after pointedly announcing that if he comes down to find the kitchen covered in blood then somebody was going to die, regardless of werewolf healing.

He lets the hot water wash away all the grime, and feels some of the anger and frustration slip off his skin along with it. The heat relaxes his tense muscles and he feels his heart rate calm slightly under the spray. And when he finally towels off, brushes his teeth, dresses, and comes downstairs, he feels a hell of a lot better than when he left.

He enters the kitchen and raises his eyebrow when he sees the three werewolves glaring at each other across the table sullenly and silently. "Please tell me that you haven't been doing that the whole time I was in the shower."

Scott glances up at him, looking over him with slight worry tingeing his features as Stiles takes a seat next to him. "We told Derek what you told us about what happened yesterday."

Stiles feels the residual tension in his body seep away and he shoots Scott a grateful smile. "Ah, less work for me then."

He turns towards Derek, his tone cold. "So, you got any idea what the thing is yet?"

Derek gives him a considering look before he speaks, like he's actually putting some thought into his words for once and wow, wouldn't that be something. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's a Wendigo."

Stiles face screws up in confusion. "A Wendigo? Like, from Supernatural?"

"No—yes—you watch Supernatural?" Derek sounds personally offended.  
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Not since our lives pretty much became an episode and I ended up on the side of the werewolves, not the hunters. But yeah, I used to."

"You watched Supernatural." Derek states and Stiles feels a slight flush right to his cheeks. "Yeah, dickhead, I watched Supernatural, now can we all please let it go?"

"Why would you watch Supernatural?" And Derek clearly never learned how to let things go. Stiles is so assigning that Frozen song as his ringtone from now on.

"Um, because I liked it?" Stiles suggests, raising an eyebrow. "And have you seen Jensen Ackles? Dude is attractive as fuck."

An awkward silence follows his words and he's pretty sure that if Scott keeps his mouth open like that he's going to be swallowing a lot more flies. Derek looks even more constipated than normal, shock lifting his eyebrows slightly and Isaac's own eyebrows are practically flying off of his face.

"Anyway," Stiles continues, like the back of his neck isn't burning, "So, Wendigo, huh?" The full meaning clicks into place and suddenly all that tension floods right back into his body. "Wait. Doesn't that mean that it—"  
"Yeah," Scott supplies, before he can even finish his sentence, "it's eating people."

And that, that is when Stiles finally resolves to look up cheap housing in the next county over A.S.A.P. before running to the bathroom and puking up his orange juice.

* * *

Deaton raises his eyebrow only slightly when they all come into the animal clinic.

"Twice in one week, I'm guessing this isn't a social visit." He nods towards Derek.

"I'm surprised to see you here Derek, don't tell me you and Scott finally made up?"

"We have an alliance." Derek grinds out. "For now."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "What Derek means, is that we've all decided that it's an extremely deadly sandbox we're currently sharing, so as long as we're in it together we might as well get along." He lowers his voice to a mock whisper. "Scott's mom's gonna take us all out for ice-cream later."

Deaton's lips twitch and Derek looks like he's going to bludgeon Stiles over the head with one of the chairs in the waiting room. So his comment was a success all around.

"Did you hear about Mr. Morenz?" Scott asks and Deaton frowns.  
"Yes, I'm afraid I did." He studies them all carefully. "Do you think you know what did it?"

"It was a Wendigo." Derek states. "My Dad once told me about one he helped a pack in Canada take care of."  
Deaton nods. "Yes, I think I recall your mother mentioning that once." But the frown stays firmly on his face and he taps the counter thoughtfully in a way that practically screams trouble.  
"Don't tell me," Stiles says, dread beginning to gnaw on his gut, "Northern Californian isn't exactly their prime hunting ground either."

Deaton hesitates before shaking his head with a wry smile. "You catch on fast, Stiles. You're right; it isn't their usual hunting grounds. They prefer to stay closer to the mountains and Great Lakes; the original mythos is from the Algonquin tribes who inhabited those areas."

"Who cares where it came from?" Derek protests. "What matters now is that it's here. So how do we kill it?"

"It matters," Deaton returns evenly, "because this is the second creature in two weeks that has shown up in Beacon Hills, far away from its usual hunting grounds. And Lamiaes and Wendigos aren't exactly known to work together."  
"Okay, so what does that mean?" Isaac speaks up.

"It means," Deaton returns, making eye-contact with everyone of them to make sure they're listening to him, "that there might be something bigger going on here than we first thought."

"What do you mean, something bigger?" Stiles asks, dread growing.

But Deaton shakes his head. "Let's deal with the current problem before we start delving around for others. As for how to kill a Wendigo, Algonquin myths aren't all that specific about that part."

"Would burning it work?" Stiles suggests and he can practically feel Derek rolling his eyes.

"Did you get that from Supernatural?"

"So what if I did?" Stiles returns defensively, turning to glare at Derek before facing Deaton once again, who shrugs. "I don't see why not."

"You're serious." Derek sounds like he's considering throwing holy water on Deaton to make sure he's not possessed. Stiles is tempted to stage-whisper "Get the salt" but refrains because he's pretty sure no-one besides him will get the reference.

"Completely. You'll have to be quick though; Wendigo's are almost as fast as werewolves when they want to be." Deaton reaches down behind the counter, pulling out a map and about ten bottles of mountain ash. "I suggest trapping it first before you charge straight in." He gives Derek a meaningful look and Stiles struggles not to snicker but feels the smile drop from his face anyway at Deaton's next words.  
"Where did Mr. Morenz appear?"

Stiles swallows and walks over to the map, studying it for a moment before pointing to the place. "Here; he showed up here."  
Deaton nods, studying the map for a moment before circling an area with red marker. "Alright. I would set up a mountain ash barrier here, leave it open until you manage to lure the Wendigo inside it. You'll have be quick, like I said, it's fast."

Stiles sighs and runs a hand over his face. "Lure? That sounds like it means this plan requires bait. Please don't tell me this plan requires bait."

"This plan requires bait." Deaton informs him and Stiles groans.

"Why would you say that?" Stiles complains, before turning to Scott. "If you let me get eaten by a Wendigo, I will haunt you till the day you die. You won't be able to eat your cheerios in peace without me flicking them into your face from beyond the grave."

"You're not coming." Derek growls and Stiles does a double take, his jaw dropping open slightly.  
"Uh, did you not hear Deaton? Mountain ash barrier? Kinda needs a human to be fully operational."

"You can do the Mountain ash but you're not going to be bait; it'll catch you before you even take one step towards the trap." Derek concedes, tone not losing any of that lovely condescension and firmness.  
Stiles opens his mouth to argue before it finally clicks that he's arguing in _favor_ of being offered up to a psychotic cannibalistic monster and he snaps his mouth shut.  
Scott lays a hand on his shoulder. "I don't think you should be bait either, me and Isaac can do that. You just focus on getting the barrier up."

Stiles throws his hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, I got no problems not being bait, trust me. I'm not exactly dying to offer myself up for dinner to another monster anytime soon." And he's really, really not, that got old quite a long time ago.

* * *

Which is why, of course, he ends up on the wrong side of the mountain ash barrier.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

The Wendigo is tall, stretching nearly a head over Isaac, and gives off an odor that has Stiles' eyes burning, bile gathering in the back of his throat. Stiles can count the knobs on its spine, its ribs, and almost every bone in its body poking through the grey, sickly skin that glimmers slightly when the moonlight catches it as though it is covered in frost, or sweat. Its face is gaunt, the cheekbones so sharp they look like they might tear through the flesh there. Its teeth are yellow, and bared in a snarl that sends the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Its hair is long, and matted, tangled in so many knots it would have taken a century to untangle. Its eyes are crazed, and if they ever held any scrap of humanity it has long since been forgotten. There is only hunger, never-ending, unbaiting, hunger that has seeped deep into its very bones. Hunger is the only thing it knows now, the only thing it will ever know.

Scott and Isaac had come racing down the clearing towards them, Wendigo hot on their tails, they ran into the trap and did a loop heading towards the exit with it still right behind; all according to plan.

But as they had neared the opening, a tree root had reached up and snagged Isaac's jeans, sending him tumbling towards the ground. He had managed to scramble up before it could nab him, running towards the entrance. But as a result, the Wendigo managed to get close enough to Stiles as he was sealing the circle to haul him over the line, sending him flying as the last grains of mountain ash finally fell into place. He had barely hit the cold ground with a thump before the Wendigo was hauling him up again, hissing its terrible rotten breath right into his face and making him want to puke.

And now, here he was. Wendigo breathing in his face, making grunts of pleasure like a starved man makes right before digging into his first hot meal in years. He can feel it running its gnarled, yellow, claws lightly over his skin as Scott, Derek and Isaac holler at him to run, to get away. But he knows he doesn't have a chance. If on the off chance he managed to get away from its death grip, it would catch him before he got so much as two steps away.

So he takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and pulls his flare gun out from the pocket of his hoody and fires it right into its fucking gut.

The thing gives a howl of surprise, rage, and pain, and releases him, stumbling away and glancing down at the hole in his gut. It glances back up at Stiles, its eyes blinking in incomprehension, before it gives a full body twitch as the life fades from its eyes and it falls. Stiles blinks as it hits the ground and stares at the flare gun in his hands. "Huh. That's way more effective than they made it seem."

He gets up from the ground and makes his way over, waving the gun in his hands in case they missed the flash of red light. "I got this from Supernatural too." He steps over the line, smug satisfaction lighting his face. "I hope you're ready to take back those snide remarks you made earlier—"

"You mean you planned that?" Derek demands but his voice sounds shaky.

Stiles frowns and sends him a weird look. "Um, No? But I figured I better have a back up in case something went sour. Hence the flare gun."

"And you didn't think to tell us that." Isaac says, looking far paler than he did a minute ago.

Stiles shrugs. "I didn't want to jinx it, you know?"

"Jesus Stiles, I think I just had a heart attack." Scott bites out, wrapping his arms around Stiles and pulling him into a hug. "Next time, tell us when you have a backup plan."

"There won't be a next time." Derek growls and Stiles rolls his eyes as he pats Scott on the back and disentangles from him.

"Dude, as long as we all live here, there's like, an over 9000% chance that there is going to be a next time."

Derek opens his mouth to no doubt make some sort of growly retort, but instead just lets it gape when Isaac rushes forwards, wrapping his arms around Stiles as well. Stiles jerks in surprise, but after a moment raises his hands awkwardly to return the hug as well.

"Isaac?" He asks, with far more gentleness than ever usually goes near his tone, worry seeping into it as well. "Isaac, you ok?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. It's just—" He pauses for a moment, struggling to find the words, "just—can we try—can there not be a next time—ever?"

Stiles hesitates for only a second or so before patting Isaac softly on the back. "Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. I'm not really that big a fan of almost being eaten either."

Isaac chokes out a laugh and squeezes Stiles tighter for a moment more before letting go and moving backwards, smile pulling at the corners of his lips.  
Stiles turns to Derek cocking his head slightly and extending his arms towards the grumpy Alpha. "You want a hug too Derek?"

Derek snorts and rolls his eyes, but with less scorn than he normally does, though that might just be a side effect of him thinking that Stiles was going to be Wendigo chow.

And then suddenly Stiles has an armful of warm, hard muscle pressing into him, wrapping tight arms around his back and nearly crushing his lungs with their strength. He swallows a slight gasp of surprise and feels his eyes fly wide open, wider than they're even been before. And he's seen some pretty fucked up shit in his life, so that's saying something. But there's something about the way Derek's arms feel wrapped around him, pulling him in close and holding him there, that makes something warm and fuzzy settle down in Stiles' chest, his stomach doing little flip flops.

"Never do that again." Derek breathes in his ear, and Stiles feels the faint brush of his stubble on his cheek as he does so. It makes something flutter in Stiles chest like he's some goddamn Disney princess and he feels a flush crawl up his cheeks.

Derek gives him a final squeeze and pulls back, sending a stunned Scott a nod and heading back towards his car with his hands in his pockets, Isaac trailing after him, equally stunned. Probably going back for the lighter fluid so they could get rid of the Wendigo's body. Stiles watches them go for a moment before Scott jumps in front of his, shock emanating from every pore on his face.

"Dude, what the hell?" Scott asks and Stiles shakes his head.  
"I don't know, dude." He shrugs. "He probably didn't want to miss out an a Stilinski hug when he got the chance." Cause everyone knows, Stilinski hugs are the best.

He starts to head back towards his jeep, thoughts twisting and turning within his mind, as his stomach flutters and the afterglow of that fuzzy feeling keeps his chest and cheeks warm the whole way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Teen wolf, that belongs to Jeff Davis, and am making no money off of this.  
Warning: Language, mentions of mental illness, references to canonical character death, references to minor character Death, references to child abuse, brief mentions of implied suicide, underage drinking**

* * *

_Not marble, nor the gilded monuments_  
_Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme,_  
_But you shall shine more bright in these contents_  
_Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time._  
_When wasteful war shall statues overturn,_  
_And broils root out the work of masonry,_  
_Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn_  
_The living record of your memory._  
_-William Shakespeare, Sonnet LV_

* * *

Now, on the list of ways Stiles would like to be woken up in the morning, (top of the list used to be Lydia professing her undying love for him but he'll have to reorganize the order now), Scott crashing through his bedroom door at 5:30 yelling: "Old Man Milliard's place is haunted!" is nowhere to be found. Seriously, is he ever going to get a chance to sleep in this summer?

He grumbles into his pillow and lifts his head to send Scott the best withering look he can muster. He still hasn't been sleeping well lately, so this intrusion into the few hours he's actually managed to garner is in no way welcome. "It's been haunted since the dawn of time." Well, ever since some teenagers broke in when Stiles and Scott were still playing in the sandbox, and ran away screaming like they had encountered the ghost of Beacon Hills' resident Boo Radley himself. He snuggles back into his bed and closes his eyes stubbornly. "Why is this a problem now?"

"Because it's actually haunted now." Scott tells him, coming over and pulling his covers off and make Stiles yowl indignantly like an angry cat. "Come on, we gotta go."

Stiles groans and throws an arm over his eyes. "Don't tell me, they found _another _body."

He hears the clink of keys as Scott moves over towards his desk. "I've got your keys, I'll meet you in the drive."

Stiles gives another groan as Scott leaves the room and briefly considers just grabbing his covers and going back to sleep before dragging himself up from the bed and stumbling over to his dresser; cursing Peter Hale and Scott's stupid bite all the while.

* * *

As Stiles tries to make himself feel more awake in the passenger seat of his car, Scott glances over at him with that look on his face that says he has been thinking way too hard about things lately. "What's up with you and Derek?"

Stiles gives him an odd look and raises an eyebrow. "Nothing. Why?"

Scott flicks his eyes back to the road, his brow furrowed slightly. "He gave you a hug."

Stiles nods slowly. "Yeah, and so did Isaac. And you."

"But it's Derek." Scott protests and yeah, Stiles can see what he means, but he's not going to let him know that. "The only time he ever gets near anybody is when he wants to punch them."

Stiles shrugs. "Well, I've never really seen Isaac go near anyone either. Maybe they were both just a little freaked out about me nearly being Wendigo chow."

Scott's grip on the steering wheel tightens. "Dude, don't joke about that. And don't change the subject. He's been hanging around you more often lately."

Stiles shakes his head. "Dude, have you seen how many monsters have been hanging around here lately? He just wants information, and he knows that when it comes to finding things out, Stiles Stilinski is your man."

"He formed an alliance with us." Scott adds, as though he hadn't heard Stiles. "Because you told him to."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Um, no, that's not what happened. I suggested that he get his head out of his ass and form an alliance with you, and after a few days sulking he finally saw the brilliance of my idea and tugged his head partially out of his ass." He looks out the window. "Not because I told him to."

With a jerk Scott pulls the jeep over to the side of the road, pulling it to a stop, and Stiles jumps slightly in surprise. "Dude, why'd you stop?"

Scott turns to looks at him, frustration and hurt fighting for control on his face.  
"Look, I know that we haven't been hanging out much lately because of Allison and everything that happened, but I'm still your best friend. Right?"

Stiles gapes at him for a moment before he shakes his head in disbelief. "Scott, of course you're still my best friend. Why would you—?"

"So why aren't you telling me what's going on!" Scott explodes, his eyes flickering golden for a moment. "Do you think I'm gonna call you a freak? That I'm not going to be your friend anymore? Do you really think I'd do that?" And there's hurt, raw and open, poking through Scott's words and Stiles feels his heart wrench through his confusion.

"What? Of course I wouldn't—Scott, what are you talking about?" Stiles demands.

"You and Derek!" Scott answers and Stiles feels his jaw unhinge. "Did you really think I wouldn't figure it out? Oh, and by the way, thanks for letting me know you like guys. And that Lydia rejected you again."

Stiles feels his mouth flap uselessly for a few minutes and all the anger fades away from Scott's features and he droops forward onto the steering wheel, plain hurt taking its place.

"I don't care who or what you like, even if it's Derek." He growls the name with more than a little venom and Stiles seriously doubts that he doesn't care, just a little bit. "You're my best friend, no matter what. But why didn't you tell me?"

Stiles sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Where to begin?" He murmurs, shaking his head before he continues. "How'd you find out about Lydia?"

"She told me." Scott mumbles. "I went over to see if Allison was ok and she was sitting there on the porch, waiting for me."

Stiles nods. "And she also told you about the whole, bisexual thing?"

Scott hesitates before shaking his head. "She didn't outright tell me, but she told me that the next person that you fell for might not have the same kind of…figure she had." He sighs. "And I couldn't figure out what she meant at first, but then I remembered you saying that thing about the Supernatural guy—"  
"Wha—a dude can't call another dude attractive without being gay?" Stiles demands, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.

Scott rolls his eyes. "Yeah, of course they can, so I kinda brushed it off. But when Derek gave you a hug the other night, I started thinking about how upset you were when Danny wouldn't tell you that he found you attractive, and how you always get kinda pink when that guy with the green eyes at your Dad's work talks to you, and the way your eyes follow Derek sometimes." Stiles opens his mouth to contest that but refrains when he catches sight of the defeated look on Scott's face as he shakes his head and stares at the steering wheel. "Wasn't that hard to figure out from there."

Stiles watches him for a moment before giving yet another sigh and leaning back against the seat. "Okay, here's the thing, and make sure you're listening to my heartbeat loud and clear here pal o' mine. Cause what I'm about to tell you is the pure, honest truth, with not even so much as a sliver of a little white lie."

Scott straightens up in his seat and turns to look at Stiles, watching his movements intently; Stiles rolls his eyes but keeps going. "Yes, Lydia crushed my heart for the last time while you and Isaac were drooling on my shoulders, I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to tell you, but I was planning to, believe me. As for the whole bisexual thing…well, I'm still kinda figuring that out at the moment. I just, I think—I think I might be, but I'm—I'm not like, 101% sure yet, you know? And as for Derek, there's nothing going on between the two of us, but on the day that pigs fly and we finally get together, you will be the first person I call, I swear."

Scott nods slowly. "So, you guys really aren't together."  
"Nope." Stiles says, popping the 'p' sound.

Scott nods again, and when he speaks his voice is careful, considerate. (Something that Derek should try and learn a little more about) "Do you want to be?"

Stiles chews his lips for a moment before responding. "Like I said, not going to lie, so if Derek could get a complete personality transplant then, yeah, I might be down." Stiles tells him and smirks at the gagging noise Scott makes. "What? Have you _seen _him? He's hot."

"Dude gross, it's Derek." Scott insists petulantly before sighing and running a hand through his hair. "Sorry I yelled at you. That was a dick move. Especially when you're still figuring things out. I just—you're my best friend man. I just felt like you were—like you were leaving me behind."

Stiles rolls his eyes and pats Scott gently on the arm. "Dude, I'd never do that, you wouldn't last ten seconds without me. You'd be eating the first glue bottle you could get your hands on."

"Shut up." Scott laughs, punching him lightly and Stiles grins as well.

Scott starts up the jeep again and pulls back onto the highway, comfortable silence falls over the two of them for a moment before Scott speaks again. "Have you thought about talking to Danny? He might be able to help."

Stiles pauses for a moment, considering it, before shaking his head. "No, I haven't, but that's actually a pretty good idea, Scott, wow. You deserve a gold star."

Scott gives him another punch and Stiles laughs out a "Hey!" as they make their way down the road, the sun glimmering through the leaves of the trees and lighting them up in a collage of different shades of green and brown as it starts to rise.

* * *

By the time they make it to Old Mr. Milliard's house, all the way out on the preserve, even further than the Hale's old house, the police cruisers are gone; the only sign they were ever there is the presence of yellow tape hugging every inch of the house. The words: 'Keep Out! Crime Scene', stand boldly in black for everyone to see and retain the same level of effectiveness that they have always possessed: that of a chocolate fireguard.

No one's really sure how long the house has been standing there; some people in town say it's at least three hundred years old. But seeing as American settlers didn't fully settle into Northern California until after the Mexican-American War when America gained control of the territory in 1848, Stiles highly doubts that. Though it certainly looks three hundred years old, and so decrepit that it makes Derek's burnt out shell of a house look like a spa getaway. There were some murmurs in the city council a few years ago about turning it into a history museum, but its remote location pretty much nulled those plans after the construction crews kept getting lost on their way out to it. So they just let it fall into ruin for the most part, declaring it a structural hazard and off-limits, but that doesn't stop the occasional group of nosy teenagers from poking around once in a while.

There's a legend attached to it that people say is almost as old as the house, but Stiles only first started hearing about it when that group of teenagers ran screaming away from it a few years ago. It's the standard story of love and loss and tragic death that has always made Stiles roll his eyes before. But now it's looking like there might be some truth in those old stories.

And as far as he remembers it goes a little something like this: once upon a time, a long time ago, there lived a young man named Neil Milliard, who fell in love with a girl in town called Miss. Evans. He could always be seen coming and going from her house, rain or shine, and eventually after a year or two (it depends on how particularly romantic the person relaying this story is feeling at the time) he asked her to marry him.

But right before they could get married, you guessed it, there was a tragic accident; and Miss. Evans died in a house fire only a few short days before she could become Mrs. Milliard. The story goes on to say that Mr. Milliard, heartbroken, built a house in the woods far away from everyone and everything and lived there alone until the day he died.

He's Googled the story before, on a curious whim, but there's not that much information other than that out there. He might have to make a trip to the library and look up some of those old paper records; the librarian still hasn't gotten around to digitalizing everything yet. Paper-cut-paradise here he comes.

Derek is already there when they pull up, leaning against the Camaro with Isaac beside him, standing a respectful distance from the car.

"You're late." He barks in greeting. "I called you over an hour ago."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "Dude, it takes an hour to get from my house to here, we're right on time." He nods towards the house as Derek glowers at him. "So what's the deal?"

"Cops got called in by a bunch of teenagers who came up here to get drunk." Derek tells him, shaking his head. "Me and Isaac took a look at the body, and it isn't pretty. Their parents will definitely be paying for some therapy sessions in the near future."

And thank god Stiles doesn't have to see that, his Dad really doesn't have the money for therapy right now; he pushes his over active imagination down with a slight shiver of disgust as Scott asks: "Did the cops have any idea who it was?"

"They found his driver's license in one of his pockets." Isaac says, and wow, Stiles does not want to know what kind of state his face was in for it to be so unrecognizable that they needed a driver's license. "Apparently his name was Nathan Morgenstern," He shrugs at Stiles and Scott's uncomprehending looks as they struggle to put a face to the name, "I think your Dad said that he owned a bar in town somewhere."

Stiles face screws up further in confusion and he glances back at the house, taking a slight step forward. "So what the hell was he doing all the way out here—"

A loud cracking sound fills the air and suddenly Stiles finds himself being dragged back by the collar of his shirt, as the front door of the house practically _rockets_ towards them all, a yelp of surprise drawn from his lips in the process. "What the fuck was that?" He scrabbles backwards into the wall of muscles he's been pulled against, hands flailing wildly.

"I think it means we're not welcome." Scott's shaky voice comes from beside him, and it takes Stiles longer than it really should to realize what that means. He tilts his head upwards to glance at the underside of Derek's chin and feels his eyes widen slightly in surprise. Though, in the cycle of this weird saving each other's lives they've got going on right now, he supposes that it is Derek's turn to save him.

Derek isn't even looking at him; his eyes are glancing everywhere around the clearing, worry shining in them for everyone to see. And Stiles feels his stomach go heavy with dread, breathy panic beginning to thrum through his veins.  
"Derek?" He breathes, glancing around the clearing himself, eyes searching for what Derek is looking for. "Derek, what's wrong."

And that's when the whispers start, echoing all around them, slipping in and out of their ears and twisting through the air, hissing like snakes. What sounds like a hundred voices overlaid on one another, but when Stiles listens closely, he realizes it's the same voice; speaking in a thousand different tones and at a hundred different volume levels.

"We need to get out here. Getting out of here is a thing we should be doing. Like, right now." Stiles interjects and they all nod, Derek letting go of Stiles and shoving him towards Scott; who catches his arm and practically flies him back to his Jeep. He hears the Camaro start up as he struggles to get the keys in, his hands fumbling slightly. "Stiles, come on, hurry up!" Scott hisses, and his eyes are flickering everywhere as well, like he thinks that some demon from hell is going to jump out at them and tear them apart just like Stiles does.

"I'm trying." Stiles snaps, finally managing to get the keys in and starting up the car, before turning and driving away from the house like a bat out of hell. Only letting out the breath he's holding when they're back on the main road; the house and its clearing a good thirty minutes behind them.

* * *

They regroup at Deaton's, who face is already occupied by a frown before they even have a chance to open their mouths. "Don't tell me." He says with a sigh, swinging open the door to lead them into the back where the examination table is, "There really is a ghost up at the old Milliard house."

"How'd you guess Doc?" Stiles jokes, but Deaton's lips don't twitch this time.

"Unfortunately Mr. Stilinski, this isn't a laughing matter. I went up to investigate that house when the rumors of it being haunted first started spreading around town, and nothing was there. It's no coincidence that now all of a sudden, more than ten years later, and more than a hundred years after the original owner died, his ghost has finally appeared."

Deaton shakes his head. "I was right, there's something bigger going on here."

"Are you finally ready to tell us that that thing is?" Derek demands and Scott shoots him a dirty look but Stiles silently agrees with him. Deaton has an uncomfortable habit of keeping information from them until he thinks they need to know it.

Deaton nods. "It sounds…like we might have a couple of witches, or warlocks, on our hands."

"Witches, Warlocks?" Stiles inquires, "You mean the whole magic wielding, staff bearing, cauldron stirring, real deal? And what do you mean by a couple? One, two, ten, a hundred?"

"For lack of better words, yes, that is exactly what I mean." Deaton replies dryly. "And for the kind of magic required to preform these summoning spells, we're looking for at least two. And powerful ones at that."

"Summoning spells?" Scott asks, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Deaton nods again. "Whoever they are, they're the ones who brought the Lamiae, the Wendigo and I'm willing to bet now the ghost, here."

Scott shakes his head in confusion. "But why?"

Deaton shrugs. "I wish I could tell you. But whoever they are, we need to find them, before they can summon anything else."

"And how do we do that?" Stiles enquires, "Wait for someone to cackle in front of us?"  
"This all started a few weeks ago," Deaton replies, "look for people who just arrived here recently. As for the ghost," He grabs a pad of paper and pen from his pocket, scribbling something down on the sheet before holding it out for Stiles to take. "If I remember correctly, these are the files you'll need to look up at the library for information about the house. I'm afraid I don't remember much about it."

Stiles takes the paper from his hands and nods his thanks, his eyes running over the short list. "Got any idea on how to get rid of it?"

Deaton shook his head. "I'll have to reach out to some of my contacts. I'll get back to you as soon as I can. I trust you can see yourselves out?"

Without waiting for them to reply he turns and heads further into the clinic, leaving them all standing there like they usually are when they finish talking to him; with more questions than answers.

* * *

Stiles drops Scott off at Allison's house so that he can try and convince her to either give them a copy of the bestiary or help them figure out how to get rid of this ghost and heads towards the library. He sends the librarian a grin and makes his way quickly past her desk at the withering look she sends his way before turning back towards her computer. He hurries downstairs to where they store the town records, checking the file numbers that Deaton gave him as he makes his way through row after musty row of cardboard boxes and filing cabinets.

Derek had muttered something about talking to Peter to see if he had any idea how to get rid of a ghost and had taken off in the Camaro with Isaac, (But he had torn off in the opposite direction of his house, so Stiles isn't sure how much he believes that), leaving him with the absolute thrilling prospect of hunting through files that looked like they might disintegrate if you so much as touched them. Hooray.

Eventually though, he manages to wade through the not-so-organized-chaos and find the files. He lifts two cardboard boxed marked with the numbers Deaton gave him and turns to carry them back upstairs to a part of the library that doesn't smell like water damage, rats and is more than slightly warmer—

Only to scream and jump fifty feet in the air, nearly dropping the boxes in the process, as he turns to meet bright green eyes half an inch from his face.

"AHHH!" He cries, stumbling backwards and banging his head against one of the metal filing cabinets. He gives a moan of pain and clutches his head while the girl giggles, he recognizes her from the BBQ, one of those stupid twins. "What the hell was that for?"  
She shrugs, and sends him a doe-eyed look of pure-innocence. "I didn't do anything, I was just standing here."

"Yeah, like, right behind me." Stiles tells her, shuddering slightly. Seriously, if these twins keep it up they might manage to surpass Peter Hale and all his different levels of creepiness.  
She fake pouts and crosses her arms over her chest with a huff. "I can stand wherever I want. It's a free country."

"Which also thankfully prosecutes people for harassment." Stiles informs her, removing his hand from his head and clutching his cardboard boxes tighter.  
She ignores him and glances down at the boxes in his hands, a sly grin creeping over her face and, yup, Stiles decides, she has definitely surpassed Peter Hale in all levels of creepiness. "What's in the box?"

"None of your business." Stiles retorts, moving past her and making his way back towards the stairs.  
"That's not very nice." She calls after him and Stiles ignores her in favor of focusing on not tripping up the stairs but still managing to move as fast as his feet will carry him. Only breathing a sigh of relief when he is settled in his usual hideaway between a pair of bookshelves, hidden from all but still able to see everything. He watches the door to the town record room's stairs through the gaps in the bookcase for a few moments. Eventually he sees her come up through and meet her twin, the two of them glancing around them for any sign of him before going up to the librarian and asking her something.

But if it's about where he is, then the librarian thankfully doesn't give him up and the two of them walk out the front doors only a moment later. He watches the doors for a moment more before giving another sigh of relief, turning back to his cardboard boxes and Peter Hale sitting directly across from him. "Whoa!"

"Quiet!" The librarian hisses in from over at her desk and Stiles struggles to swallow down the frantic demand bubbling at the back of his throat.  
Peter smirks and nods towards the door. "Girl trouble?"

Stiles just stares at him. "What are you doing here? Derek said he was heading back to talk to you."

"Which he did." Peter informs him. "Which is why I'm here, researching." He nods towards the pile of books next to him and sends Stiles a smirk teetering on the line between smug and creepy. "Just like you. We can be study buddies."

"Or we can not." Stiles quips, glancing down at Peter's pile of books and raising his eyebrow at the titles. "And since when do Ghostbuster comics count as research?"

"I'll think you'll find they can be a valuable source material." Peter responds idly, tapping his fingers over the desk and Stiles snorts.  
"You don't have any idea what you're looking for do you?"  
"Absolutely none." Peter replies. "Do you?"

Stiles gives him a smug look in return. "Deaton gave me a list of files to look through for information, so yeah, I do." He turns his gaze to the cardboard boxes, "Go find some other dark corner to skulk in."  
"I think you'll find that I was here first." Peter argues, his words soft for the most part, with just a hint of steel lurking underneath them. "If anyone should move, it's you."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I've been coming here since I was like, three, I've got you beat by a long shot."

Peter leans back in his chair, smugness practically flowing off him in waves. "Well, I've been coming here since _I_ was _seventeen_, so I'm afraid it's me who's got you beat by a long shot, _baby boy_." He drawls the last two words, picking up one of the Ghostbuster comics as Stiles stiffens, tightening his grip on the lid of the cardboard box. And suddenly—

_It's like Peter's words have reached inside him, and shaken awake the whispers that have been haunting him during his dreams, and now they slip and twist through his mind. Images flash before his eyes, blurry pictures of blurry people, and their faded laughs and smiles, and he can't squint through the bright light obstructing them to get a better sense of their features. They move close to him, running their warm hands through his hair and patting him gently on the head. He hears the lost notes of faraway songs echoing through his ears, feels the safety and security of someone's arms around him and he aches for those arms as he feels the phantom of their warmth. His tongue recalls the warm taste of freshly baked cookies, and the sharp tang of lemon tarts. And his nose recalls that familiar smell, a smell that fills the air around him now, the beautiful, wonderful smell that can't be replaced or replicated by a computer; the kind of smell only books can have._

He comes back to himself with a jolt, the whispers lying falling back into their slumber, and Peter watching him carefully over the cover of his book. When he finally remembers how to make his vocal chords work again, they sound scratchy, and strained. "What the hell did you just do?"

"Me?" Peter blinks, with mock innocence pasted over every square inch of his smug face. "I didn't do anything."

"Bullshit." Stiles bites out, his hand shaking. "Then what the hell was all that?"

"What the hell was…what? Stiles?" Peter inquires, a smug smirk fully in place to let Stiles know that he knows exactly what just happened. But if that's the way he's going to play, then Stiles isn't playing into his hands, Stiles has had enough of playing Peter Hale's games to last a lifetime.

He shakes his head, "Nothing", and opens the cardboard boxes and begins hauling the files out onto the table, but as he reaches for the last few Peter reaches out and snags his wrist.

"Don't you think it's strange," He remarks, his words light and airy while still managing to make the hair on the back of Stiles' neck stand up, "that the both of us have the exact same hide-away? Where we both like to run away when it all gets…well, just a little too much for our poor little hearts to handle?"

"Funny, I wasn't aware you had one." Stiles retorts, but his own heart is rabbiting like a small, furry woodland creature's would when caught in a crosshairs of a rifle. Which is what he supposes he is in the eyes of someone like Peter.

Peter tuts slightly, cocking his head to the side as his eyes hold Stiles gaze. "C'mon Stiles, I know you're smarter than this. Think." He growls the last word; nails sharpening slightly and pinpricking the surface of Stiles' skin. "Why are we both here?"

"Research." Comes a voice from Stiles' left and suddenly Peter's hand is being yanked forcibly away from his wrist. Stiles glances up to meet the figure of one enormously pissed off Derek, his teeth elongating slightly as he glowers at Peter menacing before switching his rage to his book selections. "Since when do Ghostbuster comics qualify?"

Stiles tries to cover his sigh of relief with an erratic nod as he sets down the files. "That's exactly what I said!"

"Oh, my apologies," Peter smarms, sending Derek a pleasant smile, "I didn't realize you were seriously asking me to go research how to kill ghosts in a _public library_." He gestures to the books before him with his free hand. "I'm afraid this was the best I could do among the _select few_ that they offer here."

Derek shoves his arm back, scowling. "If you knew it was a waste of time then why'd you come?"

Peter shrugs. "Why, to see Stiles of course. I do so miss our little chats, you should come over for coffee some time." He sends him a wink that sparks an intense desire in his gut to throw up in the nearest trashcan, or all over his expensive looking shoes.

"Our last little chat involved you threatening to kill Lydia, forcing me to betray my best friend, and threatening to bite me." Stiles reminds him, opening the first file and beginning to read it. "I'm not exactly dying to have another one anytime soon."

Peter sighs. "Shame. Well, if you ever change your mind, don't show up at our old address. We've got a loft in town now, complete with running water and Wi-Fi."

Stiles jerks his head up in surprise. "What?"

"I've got a loft in town." Derek counters. "You've got a cave in the woods somewhere."

Peter shrugs. "It's a comfy cave. And I've got Wi-Fi." He walks out, calling over his shoulder: "Good luck with the research kiddies, call me if anything exciting happens."

Stiles turns to look at Derek, his mouth still hung open in surprise. "You have a loft?"

Derek rolls his eyes and settles down into the seat besides him. "Yes, Stiles, I have a loft."

"Like with actual electricity, running water and Wi-Fi?" Stiles asks, still dumbfounded. This is a big deal, all right? A loft in town is a big step in Derek's exceedingly slow process of trying to integrate back into society. Next thing you know he'll be adopting kittens, and handing out candy to kids on Halloween instead of spraying them with hose water.

Derek rolls his eyes again. "I'm pretty sure Peter just said that, but again, yes."

Stiles blinks, trying to process this. "Huh. So I guess that means you do own a sofa."

Derek sighs and reaches past him to grab another file. "Yes, I own a sofa. Now can we stop focusing on my personal life and figure out how to rid of this stupid ghost?"  
Stiles throws his hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, Alright, sorry."

He glances back down at the file, starting back at the top of the page. "Thanks for getting rid of him by the way."  
"What did he want?" Derek asks, drawing Stiles from a report detailing the list of settlers that had moved into Beacon Hills during 1849, the most notable (at least for them) being a Charlie Evans, and a Michael Morgenstern, who's names have been circled in red ink. (Stiles suspects by Deaton.)

Stiles shrugs, scanning down the rest of the file for any more interesting information or red ink. "I don't know; he was already sitting here when I came up from the record room. He asked me if I thought it was strange that we had the same 'hideaway', and you know, all that classic psychotic uncle jazz."

Derek sends him an odd look. "Same hideaway?"

Stiles gestures to the area around them as he reaches for another file, nodding. "Yeah, this place. Though I'm gonna have to find a new one now." Knowing that Peter comes here too has stolen most of the charm and comfort from this old haunt.

Derek's face contorts as his mind contorts, probably trying to figure out Peter's reasoning. Personally, Stiles has chosen to belief that any attempt to figure out what is going on in Peter Hale's head would require years of study into the field of psychiatry and more degrees than he could ever care to have, and possible more than Lydia will ever get.

Stiles expects them both to fall into a, well, not exactly _comfortable_, silence after that, but Derek surprises him by clearing his throat loudly about five minutes later.  
Stiles flicks his eyes over to him before settling them back on the file. "Something on your mind?"

"I wanted to…" Derek starts, hunching into himself slightly, and growling the rest of the words. "I wanted to say I'm sorry. For those things I said."  
"You've said lots of things, can you be more specific?" Stiles tells him idly, after he manages to recover some of his composure because holy fuck. Derek Hale, _apologizing_? And to _him_? Stiles is torn between driving him to Deaton's to see if he's been infected with some rare form of wolfs bane and dragging this out for as long as he possibly can; because, yeah, Derek's been a pretty big asshole lately.

"_Stiles_."

"Alright, fine. Yeah, you should be sorry, you've been a total dick, an asshole of the highest order. I mean, evil corporate giants must take their lessons in douchebagness from you—"

"I'm impressed at how gracious and mature you are when people are apologizing to you." Derek deadpans.

"But—" Stiles continues, as though Derek hadn't spoken, "I think that's the first time I've heard you apologize for anything, like ever. So I'm gonna accept your, grudging, apology; and try not think too hard about who had to inflict various forms of torture on you to make you do so."

Derek looks surprised, like he thought that Stiles wouldn't actually accept his apology before covering that up with a mask of gruffness and abruptly changing the subject. "I talked to Scott when you were in the shower the other day, when we formed the alliance. We agreed not to argue about what happened with Jackson and Gerard while we're working together."

Stiles isn't an idiot, he can see the loophole in that agreement for exactly what it is. But if Scott and Derek would rather pretend that they don't want to claw each other's eyes out instead of just talking about what happened, then he's not going to force them to. At least they're all working together now, and like he said, they need all the help they can get.

So he just nods and returns his attention to the file, his eyes lighting on another area circled in red ink. "Oh, here we go, marriage certificate for Charlie Evans and Clarisse Antek, 1850." He grabs the next file and grins. "And the birth certificates for their daughter Janet Evans and son Jamie Evans, 1850, and 1852. Now we're getting somewhere."

"Antek?" Derek asks.

Stiles shrugs and waves him off. "I think it's Polish."

He grabs another file out of the box. "Death certificates for Clarisse and Charlie Evans, dated 1864 and 1870, and oh hey, it's a news article from December 14th of the same year: "Evans Son Finally Returns From Boarding School After Six Years." Stiles casts his eyes down to the picture and feels his jaw drop.

"What is it?" Derek demands, struggling to look at the picture around Stiles' head. "What did you find?"

He stares at the picture for a moment, struggling to comprehend what he's seeing before clearing his throat. "Derek." He says carefully, measuring every word. "You wouldn't happen to have seen a big blue police box lingering around anywhere, would you?"

Derek's face screws up in confusion and Stiles would face palm if not for the gravity of the situation. He needs to get Derek caught up on some wibbly wobbly timey wimey, stat. "What?"

"I didn't think so." Stiles tells him, staring at the picture for a moment more before showing it to Derek. "Remind you of anyone?"

Derek stares at it for only a second before his eyes widen and he glances from Stiles' face to the picture and back. "That's…" He starts, trailing off as he stares at the picture again.

Stiles nods. "I know."

"It's—" Derek flips the paper over, examining it carefully. "It has to be—do you think it's been doctored, or something?" He sniffs it, his nose wrinkling dubiously.  
Stiles shakes his head. "I doubt it." He takes the paper back from Derek and stares at it for a few moments, shaking his head. "Hell of a coincidence, huh?"

Staring back at them all the way from 1870 as he gets out the door of a carriage is a guy who looks like he could be Stiles' twin, right down to placement of the moles on his face. His eyes look haunted, dark circles under his eyes like he hasn't slept in years; and holding tightly onto his hand as she helps his down from the carriage is a woman glaring at the camera like if she stares hard enough it'll explode. She looks sophisticated, every hair and fold of her dress perfectly in place, and she kind of reminds him of Lydia in that way, and he feels his lips give a slight twitch.

Stiles eventually pulls his eyes away from the picture and reads the portion of text circled in yet more red ink below aloud, keeping his voice hushed enough that the librarian won't come storming over with murder blazing in her eyes anytime soon. If he's honest, she terrifies him more than Derek ever has. "Jamie Evans, son of Charlie and Clarisse Evans returns from his six year-long stint at a boarding school in upstate New York with his sister Janet Evans. The two have recently inherited their family's estate and savings upon the death of their father a few short weeks ago."

He glances over the article for more red, and upon finding none, sets the paper down on the desk. "This is really weird." Seeing your face stare back at you in a mirror or a photo is one thing, but this— He shakes his head, "This is really fucking weird."

"Are there any more files?" Derek asks and Stiles glances in the box before shaking his head. "Not in this box, let's check the next one."

He and Derek put the files back in the box, and they barely have the lid on before Stiles is reaching for the next box; his own avid curiosity sparked by the photo.  
Derek is shifting slightly beside him, trying to keep his own curiosity under wraps, as Stiles pulls out the first file from the second box. He searches it for any red ink, grinning broadly when he finds some. "Here we go, there are a bunch of new articles in this one. 'Neil Milliard Courting Miss Janet Evans' dated April 21st 1870, and wow." He whistles softly, "Nice catch, Miss. Evans."

Neil Milliard is frozen in a moment of surprise as he glances up at the camera from what he supposes is Janet's front gate; even through the grains of the photograph Stiles can tell that he's attractive as fuck. His hair looks perfectly tousled, and he's wearing overalls that compliment the muscles on his arms, one of the straps falling off his shoulder slightly.

Derek smacks him over the head, but surprisingly the force isn't enough for his head to go slamming into the desk. "Quite drooling over some hundred year old dead guy and keep reading."

"Spoilsport." Stiles mutters, and then flushes. "And I wasn't drooling over him, I was just noting his attractiveness, guys can do that."

"Well note it when we're not trying to figure out how to destroy a homicidal ghost." Derek snaps, unnecessarily grumpy, and Stiles quickly picks up the rest of the files with a half-hearted grumble.

"'Neil Milliard And Miss. Janet Evans Engaged To Be Married' dated June 17th 1872," They look happy in the picture, Janet staring up at Neil with pure and open adoration in her eyes for everyone to see, and Stiles feels a smile play across his lips as he looks at them. "And—"

He breaks off for a moment, staring down at the paper in his hand as the smile falls right off his face, unsure if he should read the title aloud in his present company. But Derek makes an impatient huffing noise at his shoulder. "What?"

Stiles swallows heavily. "'Miss. Janet Evans and brother killed in house fire', dated July 16th 1872."

Derek is silent at that, and a suffocating atmosphere falls over them that Stiles is unsure of how to cut through; but thankfully he doesn't have to do, because Derek breaks it for him. "Anything else?"

Stiles looks down at the papers in his hands, moving them so he can read the last one and swallows heavily. "Neil Milliard Found Dead At 24' dated September 15th 1872."  
Silence falls over them again, and Stiles pulls out the other file in the box, just to have something to do. "This one just has their death certificates in it." He informs Derek, but he gives no sign that he heard him and Stiles only stares at the file for a second before closing it.

He peers in the box to see if he missed anything and catches sight of something glinting at the bottom of it. He reaches his hand in and gingerly pulls out a silver pendant locket, with the initials 'J' and 'N' intertwining each other engraved on the front. The locket is dirty, and black soot sticks to inside of the carefully engraved letters. It looks like it was expensive once, the kind of gift someone like Neil Milliard would've had to save patiently for months upon months for. And as he runs his fingers over the letters, a deep wave of sadness intertwined with pity washes through him. "Guess that old story was true after all." He tries to remark lightly, but his voice cracks more than a little.

Derek nods. "Guess so." He gets to his feet. "I'll talk to Deaton and see if he's heard back from any of those 'contacts' yet." And then walks away without saying goodbye, leaving Stiles there staring at the cardboard boxes in front of him.

Which means that he doesn't see Stiles slip the locket into his pocket before he puts the files back in the box and carries them back downstairs.

* * *

"_Nice drawings."_

_He jumps at the sound of the voice, the tip of his pencil scratching a line across the page, and scrambles around to face who ever it is; clutching his pad tightly to his chest._

_The man puts up his hands in surrender. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."  
_

_He shakes his head, trying to concentrate at slowing the rapid beating of his heart, and takes in the man in front of him. He's tall, with soft brown hair that looks like it hasn't seen a brush in years, and is just tousled into its current place. Bright green eyes glance out from his face, tanned from so much exposure to the sun, and his lips are curved into a soft smile. _

_He swallows and clutches the pad tighter to his chest. "You didn't."  
_

_The man raises his eyebrow slightly. "Are you sure? Because it looked to me like you just jumped fifty feet in the air."  
He clenches jaw and lifts his nose up like his father had always wanted him to in the presence of the…lower classes. "Quite sure, thank-you very much. Now. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"_

_But contrary to what his Father always told him, it doesn't make the man lower his head in submission, it makes him chuckle slightly; and makes him flush red._

"_Name's Neil Milliard, Your sister, Miss. Janet hired me to build you a bigger bed." He tells him, making his way into the room. "Apparently you went through a hell of a growth spurt at boarding school."  
_

_He stiffens. "Please don't swear."_

_Neil shoots him a grin over his shoulder. "Got somethin' against cursin'? Though I suppose they tried to beat that outta you in boarding school, huh? I bet it was called something fancy, too. Rosethorn or Lion's Mane, or something fancy like that, am I right?"_

_Actually, at his boarding school, they hadn't really cared if you cursed; it was the one freedom that they were allowed.  
_

"_Cursing appalls my father." He shifts nervously on his feet. "And it was called the Octagon."  
Neil sends him an odd look from where he's measuring the space Janet has set aside for the new bed in his old room. (Father would hate that too, bringing something new into this old house.) "Don't mean to be blunt here, but ain't your old man dead?"_

_He nods, "Yes" and clutches the pad so tight that the metal wire begins to dig into his flesh.  
_

"_Now, c'mon, don't do that." Neil stands up and moves towards him, his hands reaching forward, and he flinches backwards instinctively and finds himself tripping over something; most likely the cup of coffee he had up here with him. The room tilts and he finds his eyes flying up to the ceiling as his body falls towards the ground, only to be stopped by rough hands gripping his shoulders and hauling him back up to his feet.  
_

"_You alright?" Neil's voice sounds worried, far more worried than the people who were paid to be ever were. "Let's sit you down."  
_

_He pulls himself out of Neil's grip, nerves feeling prickly and raw, like they're lying exposed for the entire world to see instead of covered by his pale, sickly skin. "I'm perfectly fine to stand, thank-you very much."_

_Neil crosses his arms over his chest, a stubbornness beginning to take root in those green eyes. "Now look here, like I said, I've been hired by that sister of yours to build you a damn bed. One that's gonna go to waste if you up and drop dead before you get the chance to sleep in it. Now set yourself down while I measure."  
_

"_You can't tell me what to do." He scoffs, but he can feel himself wobble on his feet slightly.  
_

_Neil raises his eyebrow. "No, don't suppose I can. But you look like you haven't slept in a damn long time and, like I said, it'd be a shame if you keeled over before you got a decent night's sleep."  
_

_He wavers for a moment, glaring right back into those stupid green eyes, so bright and alive; and he can see his brown ones reflected back in them. Broken, and weighed down by a fatigue that goes deeper than the bruise-like-shades that lie beneath them.  
_

_The fight goes out of him with a heavy sigh and he drags himself over to his armchair, slumping down into it before he gaze lands on the spilled coffee and he jumps up.  
_

_He drops his pad and rushes to the door, desperate to clean it up before the weight of his father's footsteps coming down the hall make his imminent arrival known. _

_A hand reaches out and snags him and he feels his breath catch in his throat in breathy panic, crumpling into himself to prepare for the inevitable blow—  
_

"_What's the matter?" Neil's voice asks, and he comes back to himself with a thump._

_He glances to the stain spilling out across the pristine wooden floorboards, and struggles to push the words past the lump in his throat, but he can't seem to make them come out. Neil follows his gaze to the coffee and understanding lights up his face.  
_

"_Right. The coffee." He pats him gently on the arm, saying soothingly. "Don't worry 'bout it, I'll see to it. You just set yourself down. Partly my fault that it spilled anyhow."_

_He hesitates for another moment, but with a gentle shove from Neil, makes his way back over to the armchair. Neil waits till he's settled before leaving the room and returning a moment later with a tea towel. _

"_Your sister leant me this." He tells him at his questioning glance. Panic lights up his chest, and it's like Neil can almost feel it because he gives him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, she ain't mad, just wanted to know it you were okay." He mops up the spill and balls up the towel, setting it in the lid of his toolbox and taking out his measuring stick. "Told her that you were fine, just resting a moment. Though I wouldn't be surprised if she sends Mrs. Melody 'Gossip' Leon on her way and comes roaring up these stairs mighty soon."_

_He feels relief and guilt tumble within him, his sister doesn't hate him, but he's given her cause to worry over him, yet again. "She needs to get married, find something else to do with time rather than fuss over me."  
_

_Neil hums in disagreement. "I don't know about that, she seems plenty happy to fuss over you. And anyway, I'm not sure there's a man in this town, or any, that could hold his own with her for an hour let alone a lifetime." He sends him a wink that sends the corners of his lips pulling up into a smile.  
_

_They fall into a comfortable sort of silence and it seems almost as though he has just blinked away the minutes when Neil finishes up with the measuring and collects his toolbox, taking the coffee stained towel out of it and making his way towards the door.  
_

_He stops just before it, turning to look back at him, sitting in his armchair by the dusty old window. (He hasn't gotten around to cleaning it yet.) "You know, my old man was 'appalled' by the thought of me being a carpenter."  
_

_He turns to look at him, surprise pulling at his features. "Really?"_

_Neil nods. "Wanted me to be a Doctor, or a Lawyer, or some such thing."_

"_So why'd you become a carpenter?" He asks, confused; children are supposed to do what their parents tell them, no matter what. That's what his father says._

_Neil shrugs. "Cause' my old man's dead in the ground and even if he wasn't, it ain't his life I'm livin'. It's mine."  
_

_He stares at him, uncomprehending, until Neil finally turns around. "Keep up the drawings, like I said, they're real nice."_

_He swallows. "Um, thank-you."_

_Neil shoots him a grin over his shoulder. "Now, I believe that the first real thank-you you've given me so far."_

_He colours and looks away, out of the dusty window and into the streets below. "Don't count on anymore." He snaps, but there's no real bite to it, and Neil chuckles as he makes his way out of his room and down the stairs. His footsteps thumping in time to the beat of his heart, as a fluttering, lighter set, of footsteps rushes past them.  
_

_Janet bursts into the room, flustered, strands of her blonde hair falling from place and dancing around her beautiful heart-shaped face; the pretty deep blue of her eyes standing out amid her pale face and the slight dusting of freckles across her noise. "Neil said there'd been some kind of incident, and some coffee'd been spilt." She notes the stain on the floor for a fraction of a second before her eyes flick back to him and she rushes over, leaning down a tucking a rogue strand of brown hair behind his ear. "You alright?"_

_He nods, sending her a small smile. "I'm fine Jan." He nods towards the window, where Neil is making his way across the street. "You know him well?"_

_She follows his gaze and nods. "I met him when I was trying to set Nora and Bill up together; he's a decent man, more decent than anyone else you'll find in these parts."_

_He nods, his eyes still following Neil's back. "You gonna marry him?"_

_Her nose wrinkles and she shakes her head with a laugh. "Oh, no, he's not really my type of man." She ruffles his hair and makes her way back over to the door.  
"You said decent; so what are the chances he tells everyone in town what a freak the Evans boy is?"_

_He regrets letting the words slip out when she pauses at the door; pity intermingled with hurt seeping into her town, along with a fierceness that could knock a hundred men to the ground. "You're not a freak, Jamie, and he's not that kind of man." She sounds like she's on the cusp of saying more, but lets the words on her tongue die with a small sigh._

"_Dinner's in an hour." She tells him, "I'll see you then," and pulls the door shut behind her and—  
_And Stiles jolts awake to the sound of his phone going off.

* * *

Apart from waking him up from his dream, the text message he received from Scott isn't all that important. _**Deat still hs no clue how 2 kill it, Allison still nt on board + Hr Dad threatnd 2 shoot me if I came anywre near house agn.**_

His fingers hover over the buttons, unsure of whether or not to tell Scott about his dream before shaking the idea off. Sure it was weird, but after looking so much into the lives of those people yesterday, he's bound to dream about them; right?

So instead he types out: _**Sorry, bro**_ and lies back down on his bed, running a hand over his face to try and send away the last vestiges of the dream. And when that doesn't work he gets up and showers, letting the heat banish the revenants of the dream for him. Once he's done, he brushes his teeth, throws on whatever he thinks looks most clean and makes his way downstairs, determined to have a glass of orange juice and hold it down for more than an hour this time.

He comes down to find his Dad, seated at the table, pouring over an old yearbook; his face scrunched up at he stares at, trying to puzzle something through in his mind, and biting the cap of a pen in his mouth.  
"Taking a trip down memory lane?" Stiles calls as he pours himself a glass of orange juice.  
"You could say that." His Dad sighs, "I think I found a connection among the victims."

Stiles races in and sits down next to him so fast it's a miracle he doesn't spill his juice. "What?"

His Dad raises his eyebrow at him but doesn't comment on his speedy Gonzalez act, instead tapping the end of the pen in his hand towards the yearbook. "They're all the same age, which means they must have graduated from high school the same year."

Stiles cranes his neck to look at the year on the books spine. "Isn't that the same year that you graduated?" He asks, worry lacing his words.

His father nods. "Yeah, I thought maybe it I went through this thing again I'd be able to connect them further, but so far, nothing." He shakes his head with a sigh before sending Stiles a strained smile. "Enough about murder, what's up with you?"

Stiles almost lets "Murder" fall out of his mouth, but manages to swallow it down at the last second. "Not much, I'm gonna go hang out with Danny today."

"Not Scott?" His Dad asks, his brow furrowing slightly in mock confusion.

"I do have other friends beside Scott you know." Stiles splutters indignantly and his Dad smiles, chuckling slightly. "Yeah, sorry, I know you do." He makes a shooing motion with his hand. "Now, go, have fun."

Stiles makes a grumbling sound underneath his breath, but throws back the rest of his orange juice, and heads towards the door, grabbing his keys off the counter.

"I made you chicken salad." Stiles calls over his shoulder as he opens the front door. "So I better not hear from Deputy Parrish that you took everyone out to lunch at the dinner again."

"Go, Stiles!" His Dad calls back and Stiles closes the door with huff, making his way down the driveway towards his jeep, and texting Deputy Parrish to make sure to keep his Dad in line. (He'd gotten his number when the deputy had dropped off those healthy food recipes from New York, after he had sworn allegiance to Stiles' noble cause) And texting Scott with the new info, only feeling the slightest twinge of overwhelmingly, crushing guilt, as he pulls away from his house.

* * *

Danny is waiting for him on the lacrosse field when he pulls up, but his lacrosse gear is nowhere in sight.

"Hey," Stiles calls as he makes his way over, "Where's your—"  
"At home." Danny tells him. "I didn't see the point of lugging it out here when we're not going to be doing any actual Lacrosse."

Stiles feels his heart stop momentarily and laughs awkwardly to cover it up before he remembers that Danny can't actually hear his heartbeat. "What? Why would I ask you to come play Lacrosse if we weren't going to—?"

Danny raises an eyebrow at him and Stiles feels his mouth snap shut.

"I'm not an idiot Stilinski." He shrugs. "And I figured this was going to happen sooner or later." He sits down and props himself up against the second row of bleachers. "So take a seat and ask away."

"What would I— How'd you—?" Stiles starts before Danny shoots him another look and he feels the words shrivel up and die on his tongue. He needs to break this weird trend of everyone knowing more about him and his sexuality than he does, like, today.

He hesitates for a moment, eyeing the spot beside Danny warily, before Danny pats the spot meaningfully and he finds himself darting over and gingerly setting himself down beside him.

Danny looks at him with something close to humor playing along his lips. "I don't bite, you know."

Stiles breathes out shakily. "I know it's just…" All the questions he wants to say are knocking around really loudly in his head, but when he tries to push them past his mouth into the air between the two of them, they get stuck in the back of his throat.

Danny expression shifts into something softer and he pats Stiles' arm gently. "Hey, it's ok, just take your time." He huffs out a small laugh and glances around at the lacrosse field. "Hell, it was difficult for me when I first figured it out too."

Stiles glances up at him. "Really?" He breathes, curiosity and anxiousness intertwining seamlessly with the word.

Danny nods. "Yeah, but, I've had longer to get used to it than you have." He tilts his head to the side and glances at Stiles too. "Have you told your Dad?"

Stiles looks away and shakes his head. "That's the thing." He runs a nervous hand through his hair. "I don't—I'm just—I'm not sure…about the whole thing yet. How do you—?" He breaks off and stares down at his hands. "How do you know for sure?"

Danny hums thoughtfully. "Well…you could kiss a guy; that usually does the trick."

Stiles snorts. "I don't know if you've noticed, but there isn't exactly a long line of people waiting for the chance to kiss me."

Danny grins wickedly. "Not yet, anyway."

He whips out his phone and taps in a number as Stiles strains to see whose it is.  
"Who are you calling—?"

"Hello, Lydia?" Danny asks and Stiles falls off the bleachers.

"You called Lydia?!" He demands, lying there stunned for a moment.

"Yeah, do you think you could meet me and Stiles at the mall?" Danny pauses for a moment, listening as Stiles' jaw drops open further. "Yeah, Allison can come too."

"What? No she can't!" Stiles cries, pulling himself to his feet.

"Ok, see you there." Danny says, hanging up and putting his phone back into his pocket.

"You traitor." Stiles whines and Danny rolls his eyes.

"You'll thank me later."

* * *

Stiles doesn't know what delusions Danny is currently suffering under because he does NOT thank him later; he's too busy drowning under the heaps of clothes that Lydia keeps throwing over the door of the changing stall.

A light knock on the door makes him groan as he struggles to breathe in black jeans that look like they were practically painted on him. "Please say that this is all a terrible nightmare and you're coming to wake me up." He pleads, though his hand is already reaching over the top of the door for the next barrage of clothes.

"No, sorry." Allison calls back sympathetically and a sound escapes Stiles mouth' that can only be described as the kind of sound a dying moose would make.

"Hey," Allison starts softly as he takes the red V-neck from her, "has Scott said anything to you lately? About, um, me, I mean?"

He pauses for a moment as he starts pulling off his shirt, trying to measure the words falling off his tongue carefully. "He told me that you still weren't on board with the whole, alliance thing, with Derek. And that your Dad threatened to shoot him." He leaves out the _again_, but just barely.

Allison's quiet for a moment before speaking again. "Did he tell you why?"

Stiles shakes his head before remembering that she can't see it. "Uh, no, he didn't."

She falls silent again at his words, giving no other sign that she heard them, before speaking again. And this time her voice is cracked, raw, betraying the immense amount of effort it takes her to say them without bursting into tears. And not for the first time, Stiles marvels at her strength, because he knows that he sure as hell wouldn't be able to say the words she lets fall past her lips without screaming.

"Derek killed my mother."

Stiles swallows heavily, his heart welling up with the kind of pity that his seven year old self used to want to punch people for as they dropped off their stupid casseroles at his front door. (Like that was all they had to do to fill up the gaping hole in their lives.) So he tries not to let it soak into his tone, but some slips through anyways.

"I know." If he closes his eyes he can still see Scott lying on Deaton's examination table, paler than Stiles had ever seen him before, his werewolf healing struggling to get his lungs to remember how to breathe. He recalls the guilt that had pulsed through him, at the seconds that he'd wasted arguing with Derek, seconds that could have ensured that Scott never took another breath. He also remembers Derek, hunched over in the corner, not meeting anyone's eyes as he watched the slow rise and fall of Scott's chest. And he remembers thinking that he'd never seen Derek look more like an Alpha than that moment, making sure that his pack was alright even when he looked like he was about to pass out at any moment. "Did Scott tell you why?"

"No." Allison sounds surprised, if slightly suspicious. "No, Scott didn't say anything."

"Figures." Stiles mumbles, shaking his head. That was Scott, considerate to a fault.

"But you know why." Allison states, a steely edge hardening her tone and Stiles can almost see her in that black outfit, twirling her throwing knifes at her side. "So tell me."

Stiles hesitates, on one hand, no matter how overly considerate Scott can be, if he didn't tell her than he must have a pretty good reason. And it's not really his secret to tell, and he has enough guilt from lying to his Dad to last him a lifetime without going behind his best friend's back. But on the other hand—

"It's my mom." Allison says, trying to keep her tone even, but the sheer misery that's been wracking her heart, body, and mind relentlessly ever since she got the call from her father tears through it. And yeah, Stiles gets that. He wishes he doesn't, but he does. And were their positions reversed, he'd want Allison to tell him; want it so badly that he'd feel like his skin was crawling with impatience and desperation, the fear and dread at what those inevitable words might be growing exponentially with every frustrated second of not-knowing.

"She tried to kill Scott." He tells her softly, as though that'll soften the blow even when he knows it won't.

He hears her sharp gasp through the door and wants to take the words back, to shove them somewhere deep and dark where they belong. Not hanging in the heavy silence under bright fluorescent lights and the soft whispers of laughter from a changing stall further down the hall. It feels like all of the lights should have gone out, and silence fallen over everyone, like the world should have stopped turning for that one moment to give Allison time to let those words sink in. But it doesn't, just like it didn't that day at the hospital for him, and like it never will for anyone else either. Because hey, that's life, and it fucking sucks.

Allison doesn't argue his words, doesn't shout defiantly and scream and thrash against them, like he would have that day in the hospital if Melissa hadn't wrapped him her arms and let him cry into her baby blue scrubs. She just goes quiet, so quiet for so long that Stiles starts to worry that she isn't there anymore.  
"Hey," He opens the door with a soft click, curling his fingers tentatively along the frame as though it might come alive beneath his fingertips at any moment, and peers out cautiously. "You alright?"

Allison stands stiffly with her back to him, and her continued silence sends him backtracking almost immediately. "Sorry, stupid question. What I meant was—are you—do you need—do you want me to go get Lydia so she can drive you home?"

"No." She tells him sharply and he struggles not to flinch back from it. "No, no, I'm—well I'm not fine but I'm…" She takes a deep breath, "I'm kind of…relieved. In a way."

Stiles watches her carefully, not saying anything, and after a moment she continues.

"I mean I always knew there was more to it than my Dad was telling me. And when Gerard gave me that letter…it sorta, gave me something to cling to. Someone to hate for what had happened, someone to blame." She lifts a hand to her face as though to tuck some hair behind her ears, but Stiles would bet his Jeep that she's wiping her eyes slightly as well. "But after he—well, you know—I didn't know what to believe anymore. All I had was a dead mom and a piece of paper that she supposedly wrote telling me to blame Derek. And I—" She laughs, but Stiles can't see anything particularly funny, "I didn't know what to do."

She takes another deep breath. "So, thank-you, for telling me. Now at least I know that being psychotic runs in the family."

"Hey," Stiles says, reaching out to grip her shoulder, and she turns to face him. "You're not psychotic. And you're not anything like Gerard, or your mother, you're just…you."

She huffs out another laugh, but this one doesn't have any humor in it, and arches her eyebrow at him above her slightly shiny eyes. "And who's that?"

"The only person besides me who could convince Scott not to eat glue." He deadpans and she lets out a real laugh this time, and he chooses to ignore the tear that rolls down her cheek as she does so. "You're also really smart, and kind, seeing as how you've willingly given up your Sunday for the noble and near impossible cause of making me kissable, and you take shit from no one."

He sends her a grin. "You're a bonafide badass, Katniss."

She snorts and sends him a smile in return. "Thanks. And it's not an impossible cause just a uh—" She pretends to look him up and down, "difficult one."

"Hey!" Stiles protests, "Rude. Whatever happened to 'looks don't matter'? Shouldn't I be trying to find someone who likes me for my personality?"

"Please, guys don't notice your personality until at least the third date." Lydia's voice announces primly as she arrives with yet another pair of jeans and a t-shirt for him to try on, typing on her phone as she walks.

"I told Danny we'd meet him at The Jungle in another hour, and you're not leaving until you've tried everything in that stall on."

Stiles takes the clothes and returns to his prison with another dying moose groan. He takes a moment to sink to his knees and contemplate whether or not to pray for a quick end to his suffering, a process that is interrupted when Lydia raps sharply on the stall door and makes him jump. "Don't even think about sitting down."

He then takes another moment to remind himself to kill Scott when he gets the chance for suggesting he go to Danny for help before springing to his feet and tugging the red V-neck over his head as Lydia gives the door another fierce couple of raps.

* * *

Lydia pays for a few outfits for him; despite his protests, calling it an "investment" and after practically spending the whole day at the mall they finally leave as the sun begins to sink down under the horizon, washing the sky a deep shade of red as it does so. Stiles plucks uncomfortably at his shirt, the tight red V-neck, and shifts awkwardly in a pair of black skinny jeans; feeling as though he's been handed a whole new body and is unsure of how to move in it.

"Don't look so nervous." Lydia calls from the front, pulling into the parking lot and parking near the front of the club.

Allison unhooks her seatbelt and sends him a reassuring smile. "You look great."

She tells him softly, reaching over to give him a pat on the shoulder and Stiles has never been more grateful for her presence than he is now.  
Lydia rolls her eyes. "Of course he does, I picked out the outfit myself, now can we get going? I bet Danny that we'd be done here and home in time for America's Next Top Model."

He struggles to swallow the nervous lump in his throat and looks towards the line outside the club, and manages to spot at least ten guys that are way more attractive than he'll ever be in five seconds. His palms feel clammy, his heart thundering loudly in his chest, pumping anxiety coupled with a slight dose of breathy panic throughout his body, and his stomach has decided now would be an excellent time to strike up an elaborate gymnastic routine. And he's scared, scared that despite Lydia's work, no one will want to kiss him, and he's scared that somebody will want to kiss him, and that he won't know what to do and they'll laugh at him, and—

"Hey." Allison's concerned voice drags his attention back to her. "You don't have to do this if you don't feel up to it. Anytime you want to leave, you just tell us, ok?"

He hesitates for a moment before nodding and sending her a grateful look. "Thanks."

He takes another few deep breaths before unbuckling his seatbelt and opening his car door. "Alright," He declares loudly, and with far more enthusiasm than he currently possesses, "let's do this."

This bouncer eyes them doubtfully for a moment when they finally make it to the door, but lets them in without carding them when he sees Danny. (Who had given Stiles an appreciative once over when they had met up at the start of the line)

Once inside, Stiles blinks and takes a moment to center himself amid the blinking strobe lights, disco balls and the deafeningly loud music pumping through the speakers. Danny leads the way to the bar, weaving deftly through the thumping crowd, Allison and Lydia following gracefully after while he struggles not to trip over or step on anybody.

Once he finally makes it to the bar, (Stiles swears that it was touch and go there for a while), Danny is waiting with a shot in his hands.

"Knock that back and then get on the dance floor." Danny shouts over the music, but Stiles still barely hears him. "You won't have to wait long, sleeping beauty."

Stiles takes the shot and eyes it dubiously. "Are you sure this'll work?" He yells back.  
"Trust me, it will." Lydia shouts, taking a seat at the bar. "Hurry up and get going!"

Stiles hesitates a moment more before throwing the shot back, coughing as his eyes water at the burn trailing down his throat to settle in his stomach. It makes his feel warm and tingly, and he wonders just how much alcohol was in that one shot before Danny gives him a shove towards the dance floor.

He stumbles into the pulsing throng, feeling exceedingly awkward and out of place, just sort of shifting slightly from side to side for the most part. But then, that seems to be what everyone else is doing, just with a lot more energy, fist pumps, and grinding.

He shifts around like that for a good ten minutes and is just considering throwing in the towel and heading back to the bar when someone taps him on the shoulder.

He spins around so fast he trips over somebody's feet, (probably his own), and falls forwards into somebody else's arms.

Horror fills him and he jumps up, an apology half formed an his lips, and tries to move backwards, only for the hands attached to those arms to grip his shoulders, holding him in place. "Hey!" Their owner shouts, a guy who looks like he's just walked off a runway, and through the pulsing lights Stiles can make out perfectly mused hair and a tight black shirt. "You ok?"

Stiles' mouth struggles to form words as it hangs open, a heat beginning to stir in his lower abdomen. And this time, he knows it isn't because of any weird fish tacos.  
"Yeah." He says, and then repeats it at a louder volume, "Yeah, I'm fine, thanks. Sorry for, uh, falling on you."

The guy shrugs. "S'fine." He sends him a gleaming smile, showcasing his perfect teeth. "You wanna dance?"

Stiles' mouth chooses that moment to go inexplicably dry, so instead he nods, allowing the guy to pull him closer; close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off him, for his arms to brush against his body. And suddenly the energy that courses through the people around him jumps like a spark to him too and he throws himself into the dancing. He gets lost in the music and the heat, falling so far in their intoxicating daze that he doesn't notice how they twist and twine through the bodies together, leaving the mass group and wandering to its fringes. It only fully clicks in his head when he feels his back land up against the back wall of the club.

He glances up at the guy, who features are constantly jumping between shadowed and illuminated, and feels the heat in his own body increase as the guy leans forward to whisper in his ear; his hot breath sending shivers down Stiles' spine.

"This ok?"

There's another question within that, a question lingering in-between the letters that sends his heart rate spiking, but no werewolves are around to hear it this time. Hearing it scares him, but not like the terrible, gripping fear that enveloped him when the Lamiae's breath was against his neck; it's an anxious kind of apprehension wrapped up in anticipation.

He nods once, breathing a "Yes" that he's not sure the guy hears, but he pulls back from his neck. He searches Stiles' face once more, though Stiles isn't sure what he's looking for, or what he can even see in all these shadows.

But then those thoughts are far behind him, because the guy is moving forward and pushing his lips on his. And wow, this guy must have had the best kissing lessons that money can buy because holy shit. His lips are rough, not soft like Stiles' always thought Lydia's would be, and they press, searchingly, and then hungrily against his when he finally figures out he should be kissing back. He tilts his head to try and get a better angle, chasing the warmth of those rough lips, wrapping his arms around the guy's neck to pull him closer. His lower abdomen ignites with a vicious heat that crawls up his spine and for once in his life he struggles to keep the desperate, frantic, energy that jolts beneath his skin under wraps.

The guys finally pulls his lips back from his, letting him get some air into his severely deprives lungs, and Stiles only has a minute of clarity to realize that yes, he is definitely a patron of the bisexuality train, before the guy starts nuzzling his neck; traversing his lips over everywhere he can think of.

"You like that, baby boy?" The guys says roughly, slightly breathlessly, and Stiles would be rolling if his eyes at the line if his lungs weren't desperately trying to remember how to breath and if—

_The sunlight is bright and direct, unwelcome to his eyes, especially after the shadows and shifting lights that they've gotten used to. He toddles after some blurry figure in the distance, squinting against the harsh light and struggling to make his way over the rough terrain. Only to stumble as a tree root snags his blue corduroy pants and sends him tumbling towards the ground. He sits there for a moment, stunned, before the realization of what happened sinks in and he begins to wail. _

_The blurry figure is back at his side in a moment, kneeling down in front of him, the vague shape of its head moving up and down as if checking him over for injuries. _

_Eventually it returns to its feet, crossing its arms over his chest with a distant huff.  
_

"_Stop crying. You wouldn't have fallen if you didn't follow me around everywhere." The figure bites out at him, which stops his crying for only a moment, before he begins wailing again, louder and with more strength than before.  
_

"_He wouldn't have fallen if you didn't leave him behind all the time." Another voice snaps, and he feels himself being lifted up into warm arms, a soft hand patting him soothingly on the back and silencing his cries. He snuggles into the warmth with a soft murmur of happiness and the voice holding him laughs. "Aw, look, he likes me more than you."_

"_No he doesn't." The first voice says indignantly before remembering that it's not supposed to care about him. "I mean, if he likes you so much then why don't you let him follow you around?" _

"_Fine, we'll go help mom with the cookies." The voice tells him, the soft crunch of leaves under foot telling him that it's turning to walk away._

"_Wait!" The first voice calls. _

_He can tell the voice holding him is trying not to laugh. "Yeah?"_

_The first voice sounds sullen when it next speaks. "He'll just get bored and sneak off to try and find me and get lost." It gives a long-suffering sight. "It'll be less of a pain if he sticks with me."_

"_If you're sure." The other voice replies lightly as it sets him on the ground once more. He gives a soft cry at the loss of the warmth and reaches his hands back towards them, but the first figure storms over and grabs his outstretched hand instead. _

"_C'mon." It tells him roughly, but it tugs him along gently and he gives a happy gurgle at the soft heat enclosing his pudgy hand. He totters along beside it happily while the soft giggles of the other voice float up from behind them—_

"Hey! You ok?"

"Stiles!"

"You, move it."

Stiles blinks back to himself to see the model guy backing away from Allison and Lydia with his hands up in defense. For good reason too, Allison's got out her miniature crossbow, and Lydia looks like she might stab him with her four inch Prada heels.

"I didn't do anything!" The guy protests, "He just freaked out all of a sudden." He glances nervously at the crossbow. "Is that thing even legal?"

Allison and Lydia both narrow their eyes simultaneously and the guy flinches.

"Guys," Stiles croaks out, drawing their attention away from the guy and giving him the opportunity to duck away from them all back into the crowd. Shame, he'd kinda been hoping for his number. "I'm fine, he didn't do anything, I just—" He runs a hand over his face with a sigh, trying to center himself. "I don't know." It's the truth, at least partially, since he has no fucking clue with the hell is happening to him. He's starting to think it's less likely something he should ask a psychiatrist about and more likely something he should ask his doctor about.

After all, hallucinations had been how it started with her.

Lydia walks over to him, lifting his chin up and looking into his eyes, before moving it from side to side and eventually dropping it. "You look pale." She tells him sharply.  
"You sure he didn't do anything?" Allison asks worriedly, moving closer as well.

"Yes, I'm sure can we just—can we just go?" He asks plaintively, any enjoyment has already been sucked from this night and the warmth that had lit up his body only a moment ago is gone, leaving him suddenly cold.

Lydia watches him carefully for a moment before moving back with a nod. "Danny probably overestimated your alcohol tolerance." She decides, but Stiles notes that her face looks pretty pale in the flickering lights as well.

"We were coming to get you anyway." Allison informs him, putting her miniature crossbow away and pulling out her phone. "Scott texted me because you weren't answering. He wants you to meet him, Derek, Isaac, and Peter at Deaton's; he says that they've found something out about the ghost."

He nods, pushing himself off the back wall, not missing the way their eyes follow his every movement carefully. "Ok, I'm guessing you guys are sitting this particular happy little get together out, but would you mind giving me a ride?"

"We're hardly going to let you walk." Lydia tells him dryly, hooking an arm around his under the pretense of leading him through the crowd. But Allison hooks on his other arm as well, and he feels a flush crawl up his neck at being practically _escorted_ out the club before he remembers Danny.

"Hey, what about—"

"Making out with some guy at the other wall." Lydia enlightens him. "I didn't feel like interrupting so I sent him a text."

Stiles nods sagely, now that he knows what making out feels like, he can verify that that was a very good idea. And—holy shit he just kissed someone. He, the one and only Stiles Stilinski, is a kiss-virgin no longer. He just wishes that he wasn't too fucking cold and well, fucked up, to celebrate it

He spends most of the drive struggling not to give in to the underlying panic coursing through his veins, ignoring the concerned glances Allison and Lydia keep sending his way; his thoughts consumed by the memories of bright sterile rooms and the blip of machines as they measured the life slipping away from her eyes and leaking from her mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Hey everyone, here's the next chapter!

**Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf, that belongs to Jeff Davis**

**Warnings: Language, Homophobia, Sexual Abuse/Rape, Abuse, Minor Character Death, Violence, References to Suicide  
****A more heavy chapter than the previous ones, so if any of the stuff above is a trigger for you, please don't read.  
Also, spoilers for Doctor Who's Doomsday**

* * *

_'Gainst death, and all oblivious enmity_  
_Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room_  
_Even in the eyes of all posterity_  
_That wear this world out to the ending doom._  
_So, till the judgment that yourself arise,  
__You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.  
_

_-Shakespeare, Sonnet LV_

* * *

Scott meets up with him outside Deaton's, sending Allison a woeful look before his eyebrows shoot up as Stiles steps out and goes up to Lydia's window to say his goodbyes. But the cold hasn't receded enough for him to feel smug yet.

"Are you sure you don't want us to take you home?" Allison asks worriedly, "You still don't look that good."

"Hey, rude." Stiles tells her jokingly, though it sounds slightly hollow to his ears. "Lydia picked this outfit herself, remember?"

Lydia sends him a look that he can't quite decipher. "Stiles."

He shakes his head. "Thanks, but really, I'm fine." He sends them a smile and pats the side of Lydia's car. "I'll see you guys later."

He walks towards Scott, who's watching him carefully, his eyebrows furrowed, as he makes his way over. Once there, he hears Lydia's car start behind him and they pull away a moment later.

"Why were you with Lydia and Allison? And—" Scott nods towards Stiles' outfit dubiously, "are those skinny jeans?"  
Stiles nods, avoiding Scott's eyes for the moment and yanking open the door, "Yes, Scott, brilliant observation."

Scott's face further creases in confusion as he follows him in. "Why are you wearing skinny jeans?" He sniffs deeply enough to make Stiles roll his eyes. "And why do you smell like the Jungle?"

Stiles sends him an affronted look, "Dude, we've talked about this. No smelling me without my express permission." And shrugs. "Lydia bought them for me."

"I thought you were talking to Danny today?" Scott questions, still confused.  
Stiles nods as Scott opens the door for him and starts to lead him into the back.

"I did, and he decided that the best way to see if I really like guys was to kiss one, so he called Lydia and told her his plan and she agreed with it; which lead to me being imprisoned in a changing room stall for the whole day. And then we went to the Jungle and I uh—" He rubs a hand through his hair sheepishly, coughing slightly. "Confirmed my suspicions."

"You kissed someone?!" Scott chooses to very nearly shrieks just as he opens to door to the examination room where Deaton, Peter, Isaac and Derek are all standing and still fully capable of hearing. Scott may be the only person on this earth who's timing is worse than a Time lord's; at least when it comes to saying your last goodbyes to a certain blonde haired girl on a beach in Denmark.

Stiles, never one for letting embarrassment hold him down, simply rolls his eyes and strides into the room. "Yes, let the world know, that I, Stiles Stilinski, am a kiss-virgin no longer." He fist pumps the air with more vigor than he feels.

Deaton raises his eyebrow slightly, a slight twitch pulling at his lips, Peter raises his eyebrows, flitting his eyes up and down Stiles as a smirk plays across his lips. Isaac looks slightly stunned, but after a moment a half smirk, half smile, spreads across his lips too, and Derek—

Derek looks like he's trying his best to become a statue, features tight and rigid, unmoving. He glares at Stiles like if he stares hard enough he'll wither and die under the intensity of his gaze, and as Stiles feels Scott bristle at his shoulder, he decides that he better switch their attention back to the topic at hand.

"No, really, there's no need to congratulate me." Stiles tells them, making his way further into the room, ignoring the way Derek's shoulders grow even stiffer. Seriously, what the hell is his problem? "Apparently you guys found something about the ghost?"

"I believe that's my cue," Peter announces, stepping forward from where he's leaning against the wall so that he's standing opposite from Stiles across the examination table. He sends him a wink that Stiles pointedly ignores while Derek's hands clench into fists at his side. "Now that the whole family's here."

"Before I left the library, I thought I might check the record room one more time, just in case there was something there our helpful little vet and Stiles missed." He continues, and Stiles struggles not to bristle at the accusation. "I thought I might look up the burial records, just to be sure that it really was Neil Milliard's ghost we were dealing with, not some other schmuck."

He taps his fingers lightly against the steel of the examination, shooting all of them a crooked grin. "Turns out there are three people buried on that property; Neil Milliard, Janet Evans and her brother."

"Jamie." Stiles supplies, and Peter sends him a smirk and a nod.

"The mysterious boy who apparently went AWOL for six years at some boarding school at New York; even though there's no mention of him on any enrollment lists for _any_ of the boarding schools that were open in the area at that time—"

"Not even at The Octagon?" Stiles asks, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Deaton straightens up, shooting Stiles a frown. "The Octagon? What makes you think that there would be?"

Stiles shrugs, realizing his fuck-up and going for nonchalance. "It was in the box." And when he says "It", he thinks, _the pendant_, as hard as he possibly can so that it's not technically a lie. He was a perfectly good liar before these damn werewolves came along and he's determined to be just as good a one even with their overwhelming presence in his life. "You know, with all the files covered in red marker? Nice touch by the way, it really helped us narrow down what we were looking for quickly."

But Deaton's frown deepens. "I didn't mark those files up in any way, let alone cover them in red marker." His tone is a good deal dryer with his next words. "I was trying to make sure that my investigation remained a covert one."

Stiles stares at him as the words slowly begin to sink in. "But that means…"

Deaton nods as he crosses his arms over his chest and makes his way over to the examination table as well. "Whoever marked those files up with red marker wasn't me, but I'm willing to bet a significant amount that it was one of the witches or warlocks that we're looking for."

He glances over at Stiles. "Did you see anyone down in the records room when you found those files?"

Stiles thinks for a moment before nodding, "There was this girl—"

"The one you were hiding from?" Peter supplies helpfully and Stiles shoots him a glare before continuing. "I turned around after I found the files and she was right behind me, like, we're talking millimeters here." He shudders at the memory. "Deputy Parrish told me that she and her twin are some council member's nieces and the whole police force has been basically charged with babysitting them. He said that they just arrived here from New York a few weeks ago—" Stiles cut himself off, sudden realization dawning on him. "Oh my god, do you think—?"

Deaton nods. "It's certainly possible—"

"They're fucking creepy enough to be witches." Stiles mutters.

"But getting back to the subject at hand, I'm afraid that it's not possible that Jamie went to a boarding school called The Octagon." Deaton finishes, as though he hadn't heard Stiles.  
"Why not?" Derek grates out, and Stiles is surprised at the animosity lingering within those words. Clearly a certain wolf woke up on the wrong side of the den this morning.

"Because the Octagon, dear nephew, is not, and never was, a boarding school." Peter informs him and Stiles feels surprise light up his features as an awful kind of apprehension slithers over his skin at the hints of glee in Peter's tone. "It was built in 1834 on Roosevelt Island and the first purpose it ever had, until it was converted into a lovely little apartment complex back in 2006, was back in 1841, when it acted as the main entrance to the New York City _Lunatic Asylum_."

Even for Stiles, any pin that might've dropped in the stunned silence that fell over them all would've been excruciatingly loud in his ears.

Peter looks at them all, a sly grin making its way across his face. "So I guess the question is, other than who our ghost is, what was the precise nature of the fire that those poor Evans burned to death in?"

He pretends to hum thoughtfully, but when he speaks his words have such a sharp edge to them that Stiles has to resist the urge to check he hasn't been cut by it.

"Arson, perhaps?"

"No." The word slips past Stiles' lips before he can think, and suddenly all the eyes in the room are back on him, but he barely notices them, his mind in a whir of activity.  
"Stiles—" Scott starts, moving towards him, but Stiles steps backwards out of his reach.

"No, you're—" He clears his throat, struggling to speak amid the revenants of that dream, of a sickly pale boy sitting by a dusty window in an ancient red armchair, just as chained by the ghost of his father's presence as he was when the man wasn't six feet under. The images twists and turn in his head, intermingling with those of that sterile white room with all those incessantly beeping machines. "You're wrong."

Peter sends him a look of mock pity, cocking his head to the side. "Are you sure, Stiles? Or are you just trying to convince yourself that someone who looks so much like you could never do something so _hideous_." His calm control snaps on the last word, anguish and rage flaring through before he shoves them down and returns to that cool, collected calm once more. "I saw the picture."

"Is that true?" Deaton demands, cutting through Peter's oncoming psychotic rant before it can begin, giving the ex-Alpha a stern look before turning to Stiles.

"Well, yeah, but that's not—" Stiles protests.

"Yes." Derek cuts over top of him and Stiles glares harshly at him, but Derek ignores him in favor of glaring Deaton. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Deaton replies, returning Derek's gaze evenly, "that if the ghost really is Jamie Evans, Stiles definitely can't go anywhere near the house. Ghosts generally have to use a grounding force, an object of some kind, to remain here, but a more surefire way to make sure they remain here would be to possess somebody."

"However more similar the person is to them, the easier it is to possess them, even if the similarities are only superficial," Deaton tacks on, at Stiles' mutinous look, "the risk of being possessed is too great Stiles, I'm sorry. You'll have to sit this one out."

Oh, hell no. He sits this one out, and he guarantees Scott and Derek will be at each other's throats in minutes; no, scratch that, _seconds_. Stiles opens his mouth to tell Deaton just that when—

"Fine." Derek replies for him and Stiles turns around to gape at him, open-mouthed, his mind already wrapping his words in their battle armor and getting them ready for the inevitable charge, when Derek wraps a hand around his wrist and starts dragging him towards the door.

"What the hell! Derek!"

Isaac straightens up in surprise, taking a step forward and he hears Scott cry out:

"Derek, what the hell are you doing?!"

"Play nice children." Peter calls after them, and Stiles can practically hear the shit-eating grin in his tone.

"I'm taking him home and making sure he stays there." Derek growls back and Stiles redoubles his efforts to reclaim his arm.

"The hell you are! Let go of me right fucking now!" Stiles snarls but Derek ignores him, tightening his grip as he drags him by the heels of his feet all the way out to the Camaro and tosses him in the passenger side. Stiles starts to open the passenger only to have Derek pull it closed from the driver's seat and yank his seatbelt across at the same time. Derek pulls his own door closed with a bang that sounds highly unnecessary and starts up the car, his whole body tense and tight.

And Stiles? Stiles couldn't give a flying fuck about whatever Derek's feeling right now, his own body is just as tense and tight. Stiles should have also made him apologize for all the manhandling he's been doing lately when they were back in the library. See if he ever accepts another fucking shitty apology like that from Derek ever again.

The thick, weighted silence hangs over the two over them for most of the drive, allowing the anger burning through Stiles' body to burn itself out without adding any more fuel to the fire. And twenty minutes into the drive, Stiles feels the majority of his anger be replaced by fatigue, though an undercurrent of it still lingers as a sour taste in the back of his throat; as a realization suddenly dawns on him and he finds himself huffing out a humorless laugh.

"You can smell it can't you?"

Derek keeps his eyes firmly on the road. "Smell what?" He bites out.  
Stiles rolls his eyes. "You know what." He returns his gaze to the road ahead too. That's why you wanted to get me out of there so fast, right?" Probably didn't want him to fuck up their whole Ghostbuster thing more than he already had.

Derek still refuses to look at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Right." Stiles shakes his head, a twinge of hurt pulling at his heart at the lack of concern in Derek's tone. A twinge that he struggles to account for because Derek's lack of concern for him isn't exactly a new thing with him; he supposes he just forgot that he and Derek only save each other from deadly monsters, their unofficial contract doesn't extend to deadly illnesses.

"You don't have to worry about it, you know, I'm not contagious." He finds himself telling him anyway, playing with the sleeves on his t-shirt in an attempt to seem casual. "Just, uh, do me a favor alright? Don't tell Scott. He and I just had this whole powwow a few days ago about trust and not telling each other things, so it's probably better that he hears about the whole—" He makes a vague gesture towards his head, "thing, from me, so—"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Derek asks, that undercurrent of rage from Deaton's still chasing his words as his brows furrow in confusion before he finally flicks his eyes away from the road to look at him.

Stiles shoots him a confused look, but something bitter and scared lurks underneath it and echoes in his words when he speaks. "You know, my…head thing. The thing wrong with my head?"

Derek snorts and raises his eyebrows. "Which one?"

"The same one that my mom had asshole." Stiles bites out, the words burning his chest and throat as his forces them out of his body. He turns to look back out the window, reaching to unbuckle his seatbelt as the vague threat of tears begins to burn in his eyes. "Let me out, I'll just walk from here—"

The Camaro pulls over to the side of the road with a screech that cannot be good for the wellbeing of such a beauty, with a harsh jerk from Derek, and Stiles finds himself lunging forward; the seatbelt digging in painfully as it prevents him from flying through the window. Seriously, did all werewolves have terrible driving skills?

"What the hell is your problem—?" Stiles shouts, turning to face Derek, and unclipping his seatbelt only to find himself suddenly pressed up against the car door, his hand trapped awkwardly between the side of his body and said door, by one really fucking heavy werewolf.

Derek presses his face into the crook of Stiles' neck, breathing in deeply, and Stiles feels his heart rate shoot through the roof. It's not his fault all right? Despite him being angry as fuck as Derek right now, tonight has definitely proved that his dick has an equal opportunity policy, and his anger at Derek doesn't have the ability to physically rearrange his features so that he's not as hot as fuck. But make no mistake, Stiles is still definitely fucking pissed at him, and he'd sooner kick those sharp cheekbones hard enough to shatter them than press his lips to them and—what the fuck is Derek doing anyway?

"What the fuck are you doing?" He snaps, moving his free hand to shove at Derek's chest, but it's about as effective at shoving at a marble column.

Derek doesn't answer for a moment, taking another deep breath before he bites out his next words. "You're not sick."

Stiles pauses in his shoving at Derek's chest to try and let those words sink in.

"What?"

"You're not sick." Derek tells him again, but he still isn't moving back, and after a moment he takes in another deep breath. "Why did you say you were?"

Stiles shoots him an odd look, or rather, he shoots the top of Derek's hair an odd look; he can't see Derek's face from this angle. "How can you tell?" He means for his words to be sharp, and full of scorn and disbelief, but a desperate kind of breathless fear and hope coats them instead.

"I'd be able to smell it." Derek growls back and Stiles takes a moment to let that little spark of hope grow and wash over him before he responds to Derek's next words. "Why did you say you were?"

Stiles raises his eyebrow at him. "You couldn't have smelt it from over there?"

"Stiles." Derek says, and Stiles is swept away by the sudden drop in harshness in Derek's tone. If he didn't know better he would say that Derek actually sounded…sorta…concerned. "What's wrong."

Stiles lets out another long-suffering sigh to cover the slight jump in his heart rate. "Again with the punctuation Derek? And here I was thinking, what with the loft and all, you were actually on your way to becoming a functioning member of society—"

"Stop trying to talk your way out of this and tell me." Derek tells him, moving his grip from the window ledge of the car to Stiles' shoulders, but he still doesn't move back.

Stiles shoves at his shoulders a bit more before he rolls his eyes and slumps against the window, managing to twist his trapped arm free with a roll of his shoulders. "Maybe if you backed off of me enough so that my lungs could actually expand normally, I'd be able to." Stiles replies, and is surprised again when Derek carefully withdraws, though he keeps his hands on his shoulders.

"Now tell me." And Derek's face is serious, like, serious as a heart attack serious.

Stiles runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "Alright, alright, just…like I said before, don't tell Scott alright? I'll tell him myself once all this ghost stuff dies down—"

"I'm not going to tell Scott, so what is it already?" Derek cuts in and Stiles shoots him a dirty look that's not quite as steady as it normally would be.

"Okay." He breathes, and then again, "Okay," quieter, to steady himself though he knows that Derek heard both of them.

"Lately," He says, struggling to find the words to sum up just what it is that's been happening to him, "I've been seeing things."

"Like?" Derek asks, raising his eyebrow at Stiles' prolonged silence.

"Like…memories or…something." Stiles manages to get out, and after that it becomes easier to speak, all of it just flowing out in a rush of words that he's not sure Derek catches. "At first it was just like, flashes, when I was asleep, and I thought I was just dreaming." He swallows the lump in his throat. "But then it started happening when I was awake."

"It happened tonight, at the Jungle and with Peter in the library the other day. Peter kept hinting that he knew what was going on but I didn't want to—" He runs a hand through his hair, ducking his head to avoid Derek's gaze. "And I haven't been able to sleep much yet lately, and that's—" He gives another hard swallow, the hole in his chest left by her absence was tearing itself open again, and tears were gathering in his eyes to commemorate the occasion. "That's how it started, with my—with her."

Silence reigns over them for a moment before Derek knocks the crown from its head.

"Stiles." Derek shakes him slightly when he doesn't respond. "Stiles, look at me."

Stiles finally glances up from his hands to meet Derek's eyes, and finds himself nearly falling back with the concern that he can see reflected in them. "I promise you, you're not sick. Whatever this is—there's nothing wrong with you physically."

Stiles stares at him, the desperation glimmering in his eyes practically bleeding from his tone. "Then what the hell is happening to me?"

Derek hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. "I don't know. But we'll talk to Deaton first thing—"

"No." Stiles says firmly, shaking his head. "Deaton's got enough on his plate, trying to figure out this whole ghost thing, I don't want to distract him—"

"Stiles—" Derek tries, but Stiles beats him to it.  
"Promise me that you won't tell him until after the ghost thing has blown over." Stiles demands. "Promise."

Derek watches him carefully for a moment and Stiles has never wished that he was a Jedi more than in this moment right now, that he could just put the idea in Derek's head and ensure that he accepted his reasoning.

But thankfully it turns out that he doesn't need those tricks anyway, because after a very tense moment of silence (so tense that you would have to cut the air between the two of them with an axe) Derek grudgingly nods. "I'll promise, if you promise to sit your ass down and not move until we take care of the ghost."

The two of them stare each other down, waging a silent war, until Stiles finally gives a long suffering sigh and nods. "Fine."

Derek nods as well, finally removing his hands from Stiles' shoulders and returning them to the steering wheel. Stiles settles back into his own seat, remembering at the last moment to refasten his seatbelt with a sideways look from Derek.

"I'll send Isaac to make sure you stay there, so don't even think about sneaking out." Derek tells him and Stiles rolls his eyes. "Wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

"_What's he doing 'round here again?"_

_Neil's grumble drags him from his sketch and he follows his gaze over to where Janet and their lawyer, Mr. Mark. E. M., are standing. Janet is pointing out some flowers in the garden that she recently planted, and even Jamie can tell from where he's sitting that she's just doing so out of politeness in the hopes that if she does so he'll leave faster. _

_Jamie shrugs, struggling for nonchalance, and returns to his sketchbook. "He says he has some aspects of Father's will he wants to go over with her."  
Neil snorts as Mark makes a rather disgustingly obvious display of faux interest in the flowers. "Aspects my ass."  
_

_Jamie purses his lips and makes a slight sigh, "Must you be so crude?" Though any objections he has to Neil's swearing are mostly for show now, to keep up the running banter they have between them. Anyway, Neil doesn't really have a leg to stand on when it comes for reasons to hang around their house. He's been here a total of six out of seven days every week for over a year and a half now, always managing to find some sort of odd carpenter job that must be done without delay; from redoing the swinging porch out in the garden that Jamie is currently sitting on, to tightening the loose railing that leads from his room to Janet's. _

_And the crazy thing is that his sister actually keeps falling for it, and employs him every time he opens his mouth around her before he can actually get to what exactly it is that needs fixing __**this**__ time. _

_People in town have already noticed his regular comings and goings as well. In fact the newspaper printed an article about a month back about them being engaged, but Jamie hadn't had the courage to bring it up with Janet, afraid of the answer that he already knew._

_Neil doesn't respond, just watches Mark through narrowed eyes as he follows Janet on her daily routine through the garden. _

_Jamie watches him carefully for a moment, his heartstrings tugging painfully in his chest, before returning to his notebook. "You don't need to worry so much." He tells him, and he struggles to make his voice sound comforting, not as hollowed out as he is. "She likes you a great deal more than she likes him."_

_Neil glances over at him, looking slightly affronted. "I don't care who she likes." He insists, retuning to his hammering with more vigor and frustration twined in than before._

_Jamie stares down at his sketchbook, not seeing past the grey lines on the page to make out the drawing, his chest tightening painfully even as a wry smile pulls at the corners of his lips. Really, does Neil not realize how very obvious he is? _

"_He keeps lookin' at you funny." _

_Jamie's head shoots up again, but Neil is focused on his hammering and won't meet his eyes. He feels the wry smile spread further across his lips. _

"_Everyone looks at me funny Neil." He shakes his head and returns to his drawing, he has learned not to let such things bother him so much anymore, if he did he wouldn't be able to go out in public without wanting to throw his show at somebody. "It's hardly a surprise that he does too."_

"_Doesn't mean they should." Neil argues back, like he always did. "Folks should keep their damn fool eyes in their heads, not bulge 'em out every time you try and walk somewhere." He glanced up again, looking over at where Mark and Janet were turning the corner towards them. "'Sides, that ain't the way he looks at you. It's something—argh! Damn it!"_

_Jamie flinches in surprise, jolting his head back up to see Neil cradling his hand against his chest, muttering far more inventive curses than Jamie has ever heard him use before under his breath. And for good reason, the nail that he had meant to hammer into the plywood next to where he was kneeling had somehow managed to end up in his hand. Blood pools around the wound and runs down his arm in thin crimson ribbons, and Jamie is on his feet before he can remember standing, practically flying over to him as panic caught his lungs in their iron grasp. _

"_Neil!"_

"_No need to shout Jaym." Neil tells him through gritted teeth, "It's just a scratch."_

_Jamie shoots him a look of disbelief; "You have a nail in your hand." His tone is far higher and breathier with the panic thrumming through his veins than it should be.  
He kneels in the earth beside Neil, who protests this action immediately. _

"_C'mon now, don't do that, you'll ruin your clothes."  
_

"_I rather think the __**nail**__ in your __**hand**__ is more important." Jamie snaps back, reaching forward and gingerly taking the tanned one in his pale (though no longer so sickly) one. It feels rough beneath his fingertips, covered in calluses, hardened by weather and labor; and in comparison, his own hands are flimsy, weak, like those of a girl are supposed to be. (Though he knows for a fact that gardening has made his sister's hands tougher than his will ever be.) The only calluses to be found on his hands are where his pencil or charcoal rubs against his fingers while he sketches. _

_And…he finds himself marveling at this for a moment before he snaps himself out of it…Neil's hands are incredibly warm._

_He gives a slight shake of his head to banish such thoughts and turns his attention back to Neil's injury. "We should call for the doctor."_

"_There's no need for that." Neil protests, just as Janet and Mark arrive. _

_She rolls up her sleeves and kneels down too, putting a hand on Jamie's shoulder to gently move him aside, the firm set of her lips conveying that anyone who argues with her will not fair well at all. "Let me have a look at it, Jamie" But when she speaks to him her voice is gentle, though firm, and Jamie, after a moment of hesitation, carefully lets go of Neil's hand and lets her take his place. She peers at it carefully for a moment, ignoring Neil's babble of protests and after a moment, gives a sharp nod.  
_

"_Mr. M—"  
_

"_Mark, please, Janet, call me Mark." He tells her, clasping his hands behind his back as a stray lock of brown hair falls from his perfectly crafted hairstyle and hovers just over his intriguing hazel eyes. Jamie has often wondered what colors you might ascribe to them, and whether they would be able to capture the same color reflected back at him now. It is a shame that those eyes couldn't be afforded to someone with a better personality. _

_Janet appears to struggle not to grind her teeth; taking a deep breath before flashing him the most polite smile she can muster up. "Mark. Would you please go in the house and get Maria to send for the doctor?"_

_He gives her a slight, sweeping bow, "It would be my pleasure," before taking off towards the house, flashing her a final beaming grin over his shoulder as he goes._

_Janet appears to struggle not to be sick as she waves him off, before turning to Jamie with a slight grimace. "Jamie, would you fetch some water and a towel from the kitchen?"_

"_That ain't necessary, Janet." Neil tells her firmly, his eyes flickering over to Mark as he enters the house. _

_Janet gives him a look that Jamie's fairly certain has killed lesser men. "Look here Neil Milliard, you are going to shut your mouth and sit still while we get about to fixing that hand of yours. And may the lord help you if you dare move an inch without my say so, is that understood?"_

_Neil glares at her, but keeps his mouth shut, which is a minor miracle when it comes to him. Janet shoots him a sweet smile before turning back to Jamie, humor twinkling in her eyes. "Jamie, kindly go fetch those towels now."_

_Jamie nods, sending her back a smile of his own, though he's not sure how much humor or good will there is in it, and makes his way back towards the house. _

_The towels take a long time to find, he suspects Maria moved them around again, and the dull ache in his chest cause trivial tears to gather in his eyes several times before he forces them down with a hard swallow. When he finally locates them, he fills a bowl of water up in the sink, and can't resist turning to peer out the kitchen window as he waits. Neil and Janet sit together, Janet still gingerly holding his tanned hand in her pale one as the two argue. Even from this distance, he is struck with just how good they look together; every aspect of their physical bodies compliments the other's perfectly. Their personalities are just as equally matched, and it is already clear to him that they care a great deal for each other; but then again, a blind man could guess their affections for each other._

_His chest burns as he acknowledges this, making more useless tears fill his eyes, useless tears that he can't bat away this time. His heart aches in his chest; a deep ache that seems carved into his very being, inescapable, branded into his flesh and bone. A useless ache, for things that can never be, for things that he will burn in hellfire for even wishing for, and he wishes with his damned soul that God had given him a body with which he could follow these feelings through without fear of persecution and a return trip to his 'boarding school'. _

_He recalls, suddenly, and without warning, a girl; an old roommate of his that ended her stay at that school with her own power and a bed sheet twisted into a rope. How she had screeched at all hours, keeping them awake with her mad cackling as she relived again and again how she had ended up in there with the rest of them.  
_

"_He was mine, mine, I wouldn't let him leave me." She had howled to a roomful of people who had already deafened themselves with their own useless cries. And then she would cackle, her voice scratchy and damaged beyond repair from all the smoke and embers she had inhaled before her 'rescuers' had pulled her from that haven of flames. _

"_He broke my heart, so I burned his."_

"_Taking a trip down memory lane?"_

_He jumps at the sudden intrusion, turning to face Mark, leaning against the doorframe and watching him, a smirk playing across his lips. _

_He bristles, turning back to the sink, where the bowl has already filled up, and shutting the tap off; wiping his eyes quickly as he does so. "I don't have that many memories I wish to see again."_

"_No, I imagine you don't." Mark remarks, making his way into the kitchen and over to where Jamie stands. "I've never found asylums to be a particularly good source of fuzzy, warm memories."_

_Jamie struggles not to flinch, beating back old, dark memories as he lifts the bowl of water out the sink and sets it down on the counter. "And you've been to many, I presume?"_

"_Just the one." Mark tells him lightly, making his way over to Jamie's side, standing in front of the counter. "Though we seem to have picked up quite the little artist from it."_

_He holds out Jamie's sketchbook and Jamie feels his heart jump into his throat._

"_Give that back!" He demands, reaching for it, only for Mark to capture his hands and shove him back against the sink. He pins him there with the weight of his body as he flips through the sketchbook. _

"_My, my, you really like drawing our Mr. Milliard, don't you?" He comments, a waterfall of smugness falling from his tone. "This little sketchbook's just full of drawings of him, every single page you turn to." He flips the book closed with a small snap, turning to shoot a wicked grin at Jamie. "I wonder what Janet would have to say about that."_

"_They're just drawings." Jamie snaps back, but dread pounds through his body with each pulse of his heart as he imagines what this knowledge would do to her; he shifts uselessly against his weight. "They don't mean anything."_

_Mark just continues on as if he had never spoken. "Or better yet, what would the people in town think if they knew where you really were for the past six years?"_

_Jamie feels his very blood freeze. "You wouldn't dare."_

"_Wouldn't I?" Mark grins down at him, his smile all teeth. "As the lawyer who got you out of that place, I'm afraid I hold all the cards in this little poker game."_

_Mark nods his head out towards the window, where Neil is scanning the house, probably wondering where the doctor is. "Do you think he'd still want anything to do with our little Miss. Evans if he knew? That he'd want anything to do with you?"_

_Jamie swallows the painful lump in his throat that rises up at the thought. "What do you want?"_

"_Your sister has to go away for a few days to sort out some…complications that have arisen with your father's will." He tells him, acting like he's won some great and glorious battle. "While she's away, come to my home on Cypress avenue and we'll…discuss our business there."_

_Jamie glances out the window towards where Neil and Janet are laughing together, happy and oblivious to what's transpiring only a window away from them.  
_

"_Well? What do you say?" Mark demands, shaking him, and drawing his attention back to him._

_Jamie swallows heavily and closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as prepares to let the words fall off his tongue amidst the panic raging in his chest; hoping against hope that someone will see what's happening and save him before it's too late.  
_

"_I'll…I accept your offer, Mr. Morgenstern."_

_But nobody does. _

Stiles jumps awake with a strangled scream on his lips, forcing it down with several gasping breaths as he wraps his arms around his trembling body. He sits there until the shaking subsides, only unwrapping his arms from himself when he can breathe normally again. He loosens his muscles from where they have locked defensively in place, lowering himself back down onto his bed and glancing over at his bedside table, where he's been keeping the locket since he absconded with it from the library.

He reaches over and picks it up gingerly, letting the silver chain run through his fingers before rubbing the engraving with his thumb, that deep sadness that he felt in the library echoing through his very being, a thousand times more poignant than it was then. He stares at it intently as the image of Jamie's brokenhearted face, and the raw, desperate pain and longing, reflected in that kitchen window, stares back at him. He finds himself wondering just how many times Jamie saw Janet wearing that locket and wished with everything that he had that the 'J' stood for his name, and not his sister's.

Really, had what he wanted been that much to ask? To be allowed to be with the person that he loved without breaking the law? To be allowed to love them, even if they didn't love him back?

Stiles' throat burned with the unfairness of it all, his heart aching in tandem with Jamie's and he was so fucking glad that he had been born when he was, and not back there with Jamie and all the other people who couldn't be with who they loved for stupid, fucking unfair, reasons.

* * *

An hour or so later, he sets down the locket and picks up his phone instead; the time on it reads 7:30 but he can't find it in himself to complain at being awake so early now.

He taps out a text to Scott, telling him that he thinks the victim might have been related to someone who knew the ghost back when they were still alive. He knows that Scott won't text him back until he wakes up, which'll be at least noon, giving him time to come up with an appropriate answer for why he thinks so that doesn't involve divulging about his dreams. They feel…oddly intimate, personal, and the thought of spreading their content around makes him feel uncomfortable; it'd be like he stole someone's diary and spread the pages around town for everyone to read.

After another half an hour or so of thinking, he decides to call Derek, who answers on the second ring. _"What's wrong?" _

"I think our victim might be related to someone that knew the ghost back when whoever it is was still alive." Stiles tells him, waiting for his surprise and shock to echo down the phone line.

Derek goes quiet for a moment and Stiles wonders if he really stunned him that badly. _"I thought you were going to sit your ass down and not move."_

"I haven't." Stiles replies, affronted. "It just—it sorta came to me—you know? Why bother going through all those records unless you were planning some kind of poetic justice you know? An eye for an eye and all that—"

"_We already know that the guy was related to someone that knew the ghost."_ Derek

grumbles out and Stiles feels his brows furrow in confusion.

"Um, no we don't. Or at least, I didn't."

"_It was in one of those files."_ Derek tells him, frustration tingeing his tone. _"Back at the library."_

Oh yeah, Stiles remembers Derek picking up one of those now. Except—

"You didn't tell me that."

"_I didn't think I had to."_ Derek grumbles and Stiles feels his jaw drop open in disbelief. "So while I have to tell you every single little bit of information I find, you can just pick and choose what to tell me?"

An awkward silence falls over them and Stiles can practically hear the gears in Derek's head clicking as his sleepy brain struggles to catch up with his mouth. _"No, that's—that's not what I meant. Look, if you want to know so badly I can tell you his name—"  
_

"I already know his name." Stiles snaps back. "Mark Morgenstern, right?"

"…_Yeah that's—wait—how did you know?" _Derek demands.

"It doesn't matter." Stiles tells him, frustration crawling underneath his skin. "I thought alliances were supposed to mean that you trusted the other party to watch your back, not hide any bit of info they find."

"_That's not what I was doing." _Derek snarls back.

"Oh? Then what were you doing Derek? Cause clearly it wasn't helping us take down a homicidal ghost—"_  
_

"_I was trying to make sure you didn't get yourself in too deep, like last time." _Derek shouts down the phone line, and Stiles pulls his phone away from his ear slightly with a wince.

"You don't need to shout, the phone is like, right next to my ear." Stiles informs him, annoyance mingling with his frustration. "And if by last time you mean the Wendigo, are you forgetting that I was the one who killed the stupid thing? Hmm? Flare gun shot to the gut ringing any bells?"

"_Yeah, I remember. But what if it hadn't thrown you over into the ring?" _Derek bites back stubbornly._ "What if it'd just killed you with its claws before you could close the mountain ash barrier? Then you'd be dead, Stiles."_

"What if?" Stiles splutters in disbelief. "If we're going by 'what if's now, what if I hadn't pushed you out of the way of that fucking Lamiae? What if Peter hadn't bitten Scott? What if Allison and her family had never moved to this town? What if Gerard hadn't had cancer? What if I hadn't had orange juice for breakfast yesterday? What if I hadn't turned left?"

"_Stiles—" _

"There are like, a billion 'what if's in the world, Derek." Stiles tells him firmly. "Don't you _dare_ keep me out of the loop because of something that _might've_ happened."

Silence crackles down the phone line for a moment before Derek speaks again.

"_I apologize,"_ He grinds out, grudgingly, but nonetheless, _"for trying to make sure you don't end up dead in a ditch somewhere. Next time, I'll just let you fend for yourself."_

"Fine by me." Stiles returns evenly and he hears Derek growl in response. "So long as you let me know everything before hand."

Derek grumbles something unintelligible underneath his breath and Stiles feels a victory smirk tug at his lips. _"Quit smirking, I'm still sending Isaac over today."_

"I wasn't—how'd you know I was smirking?" Stiles demands, glancing around his room, over his shoulders, and out his window for any stray sight of one, irate, leather cloaked, Alpha; but coming up with nothing.

"_Because I know you."_ Derek replies, with a long-suffering sigh, before hanging up.

Stiles stares at the phone for a long while after that, pondering Derek's words and weird skip his heart makes as they play on a loop in his head; over and over.

_I know you. _

When did that happen?

* * *

Isaac shows up about an hour later, and Stiles opens the door with:

"They wanted us to know."

Isaac raises his eyebrow and steps through into the house. "Who wanted us to know what?"

Stiles closes the door, making sure to lock it, before taking off upstairs to his bedroom with Isaac following right on his heels. "The witches, or warlocks, or—you know what? I'm just gonna call them sorcerers. That's gender neutral, right?"

Isaac rolls his eyes and sits down on Stiles' computer chair with a shrug that Stiles interprets to mean 'hell if I know'.

Stiles nods, pacing slightly. "Right, so these sorcerers, whoever they are, though my money's on the creep town twins personally, they wanted us to know how the victim was connected; and the whole story behind it."

"And how did you figure that out?" Isaac asks, his eyebrow still arched, but interest creeping into his tone as well.

Stiles continues his pacing. "It's been bugging me since I talked to Derek this morning. Those files back at the library; all the things we needed to know were circled in red marker. And I don't care how disorganized the library is, we should not have been able to find the entire Morgenstern family tree, and the death and birth certificates of everyone that we needed to know about, as well as all those news articles, all in the same box. Someone put all those files together for us."

He makes his way over to his bedside table. "And even if the town records really were that terribly organized, there's no way this wouldn't have made it into one of those boxes without somebody noticing."

He picks up the pendant, showing it to Isaac, whose eyes widen in surprise.  
"You got that from the library?" He demands, giving the locket a wary look.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "No, I bought it at Tiffany's."

Isaac stares at him incredulously. "What were you thinking?"

"That the space between my neck and shirt needed a little snazzing up?" Stiles snarks.

Isaac just keeps staring at the necklace. "You have to get rid of it."

Now it's Stiles' turn to stare incredulously. "What? What are you—?"

"Didn't you hear Deaton?" Isaac questions, a note of panic slipping into his tone. "Ghosts need a grounding object to make sure they stay here, right?"

Deaton's words from last night begin to trickle back into his mind and he nods slowly. "Yeah, so?"

"So?" Isaac very nearly shouts. "Don't you think that a dead person's necklace might just count as a grounding object?"

Oh.

"Oh." Stiles says, glancing down at the object in his hands. "Yeah, I was getting to that, I think there might be two ghosts."

"Two ghosts." Isaac repeats, like he's trying to force some sense into the words. "You think there might be two ghosts."

"Yes." Stiles tells him with another eye roll. He rubs a thumb over the engraving absentmindedly and Isaac looks like he might collapse.  
"Don't—Just—" Isaac makes his way over and takes the locket from Stiles despite his protests, setting it back down on the bedside table. "Explain." He tells him firmly, giving him a meaningful look.

Stiles throws up his hands in mock surrender. "Ok, fine, geeze, just calm down."

He sits down on his bed, and after a moment of watching him, and after Stiles gestures back towards his desk chair, Isaac grabs his previous seat and pulls it closer to Stiles. Setting it down as soon as he's satisfied and conveniently blocking Stiles' path to the window in the process.

Stiles struggles not to roll his eyes as he continues. "Ever since I got the necklace, I've been having these dreams, except they're not really dreams, they're memories."

"Whose memories?" Isaac asks, his brows furrowing in confusion.

Stiles swallows as the image of that heartbroken face swims to the front of his mind.

"Jamie's."

Isaac's eyebrows practically fly off his face. "The crazy brother?"

"He wasn't crazy—" Stiles snaps.

"Right, because they normally lock up perfectly sane people in asylums for six years." Isaac drawls, rolling his own eyes.

Stiles clenches his jaw and stares down at his hands. "They did if you were a guy in the 1800s who liked other guys."

Isaac's jaw drops to the floor.

"He—you're saying that he—" He breaks off and shakes his head, looking a complicated mix of guilty and sick. "God, that's…"

Stiles nods his agreement and finds his gaze drawn back over to the locket.

"He was in love with the guy his sister got engaged to, Neil Milliard."

The gears begin ticking in Isaac's head as he absorbs that little tidbit. "Isn't that the guy who—"  
"Yeah," Stiles finishes for him, "he's the guy who built that house."

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, sliding forward on the bed slightly. "I think that he's our other ghost, the one that chucked the door at us and whispered in our ears, and if that's the case then his grounding object must be the house."

"But why's the locket Jamie's?" Isaac asks, his face scrunching up in confusion.

"I've got a theory about that," Stiles tells him, struggling to speak around the painful lump that arises in his throat at the thought. "The letters on the locket, the 'J' and 'M'? How many times do you think he stared at it and wished like hell that 'J' stood for his name?"

Isaac looks like he's struggling to speak around a lump in his own throat, his eyes traversing back over to the locket for a moment before glancing back at Stiles.  
"I think I see what you're saying."

Stiles gives another nod, sharper this time, to make up the poignant ache clutching at his chest. "What if the object doesn't have to belong to the ghost? What if it just has to have some strong emotion that they attached to it?"

"Then you really shouldn't have it." Isaac tells him firmly, taking Stiles by surprise.  
"Were you not listening to Deaton when he told you how easy it would be for the ghost to possess you?" Isaac demands, and Stiles is taking aback by the raw worry poking though his words, his mouth flapping uselessly and Isaac seizes the opportunity and keeps going. "What if he's using these dreams to distract you so he can possess you more easily? And does Derek know you have the necklace?"

"Last time I checked, Derek was neither my Dad nor my Alpha, and he didn't need to know every single thing I do." Stiles snaps back, but a guilty twinge pulls at his gut, exacerbated further when Isaac continues with a disbelieving huff.  
"You tore him a new one this morning when you found out that he'd been keeping things from you and now here you are, doing the exact same thing!"

"If I tell Derek about the necklace, he'll just wolf out on me and chuck it in the nearest lake." Stiles argues. "Which won't get us any closer to figuring out how to take down Neil's ghost."

Isaac shakes his head, but Stiles can see him wavering. "Look, I promise, I'll tell him as soon as I figure out the whole story behind what happened. I just need a little more time—"

"Derek'll kill you when he finds out." Isaac warns, but he shifts awkwardly in his seat, and Stiles can feel that he almost has him.

"I know, I know, I just—" He shakes his head. "I know that Jamie's not the one who killed his sister. He loved her, so much, you can't even—" He swallows at the rush of feelings that come to grip painfully at his heart. "You can't even imagine. But I've—I've felt it, in those dreams. And I feel like I owe it to him, to let him show me the truth about what happened."

Isaac stares at him for a moment more, hesitating, before he lets out a final sigh and Stiles knows that he has him. "Alright, but when Derek finds out about this, my ass better not end up in the line of fire." He glances back at Stiles, a small, wry smile twitching at the corners of his lips. "So, what'd he show you so far?"

Stiles shoots him a grateful smile before he continues. "Just little things, like how he met Neil and stuff, but last night he showed me his family's lawyer, Mark Morgenstern." Stiles swallows heavily. "I think he was blackmailing Jamie."

* * *

"That Scott again?"

Stiles glances over to where Isaac is walking back into the living room, holding a mug carefully in his hand, and smiles. "Yeah," He affirms, waving his phone in the air slightly before tapping out a reply. "He's stopped threatening to kill Derek with some of Deaton's latex gloves and one of waiting room chairs." And now is apparently planning to let the cats maul him to death, but, hey, at least you've got to give him points for ingenuity.

Isaac rolls his eyes, "What a relief," and extends the mug towards Stiles, "here."

Stiles shoots him a look of surprise. "Thanks," he tells him as he takes it from him gingerly, taking a sniff shooting Isaac a soft smirk. "You made me hot chocolate?"

Isaac gives an embarrassed shrug and sits down beside Stiles. "My mom used to make it whenever I couldn't sleep." He makes a vague gesture towards Stiles' face. "You look like you haven't been sleeping well lately."

Stiles acknowledges that with his own shrug, touched that Isaac would do that for him. He knows the effort it takes to share memories like that with people. "Lots of stuff going on lately. And besides, sleep's overrated." He takes a sip, blinking in slight surprise. "Holy shit, this is good."

Isaac gives him a cocky grin. "Knew you'd like it."

"Did you make one for me?"

Stiles jumps at Derek's voice, and would've spilled his hot chocolate if it weren't for Isaac's werewolf reflexes. As it is, he shoots a dirty look at Derek.

"Dude, seriously? Would it have killed you to knock on the door? My dad isn't even home!"

Derek shrugs from where he's leaning against the doorframe. "You left your window open again."

"Yeah, well, I didn't think solid walls were going to do that much to stop a ghost, so I figured it wouldn't make much of a difference if I left it open." Stiles tells him, shaking his head while Isaac carefully lets go of the mug and stands up. "Must we go over this again? Unlocked windows are not invitations for you to break into other people's houses."

Derek rolls his eyes and turns his attention towards Isaac. "You can go, I'll make sure he stays here until his Dad get's home."

"Hello? 'He' is right here." Stiles protests, "And by the way, I outgrew babysitters seven years ago."

"Which is why we have to be here to make sure you don't do anything stupid." Derek tells him and Isaac stifles a snort.

"Rude." Stiles tells him with a huff that he ignores as he makes his way upstairs and towards Stiles' bedroom window.

Derek looks over at him, raising his eyebrow. "So, I see Isaac managed to spend the whole day with you without trying to claw his eyes out."

"Again, rude." Stiles tells him, standing up with a huff and making his way past Derek into the hallway. "How'd the ghost busting go?"

A dark scowl tugs itself into place on Derek's face, all good humor evaporating from the atmosphere around them and Stiles whistles softly. "That bad, huh?"

"Deaton's contacts still haven't responded yet." Derek tells him, clenching his teeth slightly. "Peter's being useless, and Scott has a problem with everything I say."

Well no one could've seen that coming. Oh wait, _he_ did. From a mile off, blaring the Ghostbuster's theme at an incredibly obnoxiously loud volume.

"Sorry the honeymoon isn't going as well as you'd hoped." Stiles tells him as he walks into his room. "You know, if you guys would actually talk about your problems you'd have a much healthier relationship."

"_We_ don't have any problems," Derek growls, "Scott's the one with the problem."

Stiles gives him an incredulous look. "Are you—are you seriously hearing the words coming out of your mouth right now?"

Derek gives him a deadly look that Stiles is fairly sure has killed harder men than he.

"If Scott wasn't so busy pining over Allison and blaming me for her breaking up with him, we might actually be able to get something done." Derek bites out.

"And if you weren't so busy blaming him for what happened with Gerard then you might be able to trust him long enough for you guys to actually get something done." Stiles fires back, setting his hot chocolate down on his desk.

Derek raises his eyebrow, a hard scowl dominating his features. "You think I'm going to trust Scott? After he _used_ me to get to Gerard? After he _pretended_ that he was a part of my pack?"

"Gerard threatened his mom." Stiles reminds him. "I mean, c'mon Derek, what was he supposed to do?"

"He was supposed to trust me." Derek snarls. "Trust that I could get the job done, not go behind my back—"

"And what? Save Jackson's life? Save all our lives?" Stiles stresses, giving his head a slight shake of disbelief. "Is that what you're upset about—?"

"You don't understand!" Derek shouts, stepping forward towards Stiles, "You don't get what it means to—" His arms sweeping from his side and—

With a crash, Derek's hand knocks Stiles' chessboard from where Isaac and him had been playing earlier, off his desk and onto the floor.

The two of them stare at it for a moment, Derek as still as statue, before Stiles gives a sigh and makes his way over. "Nice. Next time, why don't you just knock over the whole desk, Caveman?"

"What the hell is that?" Derek snaps, his fists clenched tightly at his side, while Stiles bends down to start collecting the pieces.  
Stiles raises his eyebrow at him for a moment before returning to his collecting. "It's a chessboard, dumbass, have you never seen one before?" At Derek's continued silence Stiles lets out another sigh. "God, no wonder your plans are such shit."

"I know what a chessboard is." Derek retorts, continuing to glare at both it and Stiles as he finished collecting the pieces and sets it back on the desk. "What is it doing on your desk?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I was teaching Isaac to play earlier." Stiles replies, picking up one of the pawns and turning it over in his hands. "He was pretty bad at it though, so we gave up after a couple of rounds."

He turns back to Derek. "So, what don't I understand?"

Derek glowers at the chessboard a moment more before turning his attention back to him. "You don't understand what it means to be betrayed by someone in your pack. It—" He swallows hard, tightening his fists to the point where Stiles swears he hears bone creak. "It makes you seem weak, to hunters, and to all the other packs out there. And once word gets out, suddenly you find yourself surrounded by all sorts of different people gunning for your head, or your territory, or both."

Stiles feels his mouth go dry, understanding and the tiniest bit of horror beginning to seep into his mind. "Derek, Scott didn't _betray_ you—"

"He tricked me." Derek snaps. "I was supposed to be his alpha, he was supposed to defer to _me_; not undermine my authority and put me and my pack in danger."

"That's not—he was trying to _save_ your life, not ruin it." Stiles insists. "He didn't—you can't blame him for not knowing that-."

"If he had trusted me and let me kill Jackson when I had the chance, I wouldn't have to blame him for it." Derek maintains, taking another step towards Stiles. "And all those people that he killed? They'd still be walking around, talking, laughing, _living_."

"That's not fair." Stiles argues. "Matt was controlling him—"

"So, what? It doesn't matter that it was his claws that ripped their throats out? It doesn't matter that all those deputies died because they picked that shift? Or that are you saying that those people from the swim team deserved to die because one night they happened to be in a pool drunk off their asses while a kid was drowning?"

"Yes Derek that's exactly what I'm saying, thank-you for putting words in my mouth." Stiles snarks back, but his gut drops out a little as he remembers the deputies' cold eyes staring back at him, and the how shiny the barrel of Matt's gun had looked when it was pointed at him.

Derek's face twists into a snarl as he snatches the pawn Stiles' hand.  
"You know how it is; in order to win, you have to sacrifice a few pawns."

"Yeah, in chess, which is a game." Stiles snaps back, "This is real life, and the 'pawns' are real, heart-beating, breath-taking, people." He reaches for the pawn only to have Derek catch his wrist with his other hand.

"The principles are still the same." Derek tells him stubbornly. "The consequences are just deadlier."

"See, this is where you and Scott are different." Stiles replies, incredulity and slight amazement coloring his tone. "You're more of a Machiavellian leader, and Scott, well, he's more into the whole Hero side of things. Where everybody lives happily ever after with sunshine, lollipops and rainbows."

Stiles tries to tug his arm out of his Derek's grip, but he tightens it, holding Stiles in place. "I hate to break it to you Stiles, but there's no such thing as happily ever after." Derek sneers. "Especially not in a hellhole of a town like this."

"Not exactly disproving my Machiavellian theory here." Stiles tells him firmly.  
"Yeah? Well what would you have done?" Derek spits back at him, "You're not exactly hero material."

"Don't turn this on me." Stiles bites back, sharp hurt that he disguises as anger rising up in him at the remark "You and Scott are the ones that need to get your shit together, not me. Yeah, you're right, those people in the police station didn't deserve—" Stiles swallows heavily, blinking away the memory of Deputy Janet lying on the floor, staring into everything and nothing, "They didn't deserve to die like that. And neither did any of the other people Matt and Jackson killed. But Jackson—he was a snake, and a giant dick most, well all, of the time—but he didn't deserve to die either."

"And you talk a lot about how Scott should have trusted you, but you didn't trust him either, or me, no matter how many times we stuck our necks out for you. I mean—" A complicated mix of frustration, fatigue, and hurt meld together in his next words. "I lie to my Dad constantly for you, I helped you break Isaac out of jail, I got beat up by Gerard, I held you up in a pool for two hours, I pushed you out of the way of that Lamiae, and after all that, you still don't trust me. I just—" He shakes his head, "I don't know what you want from me. And neither does Scott."

A thick, inescapable silence falls over them, weighing down Stiles' shoulders and wrapping its suffocating grip around his lungs. He can feel Derek's hand on his wrist flexing slightly, as though Stiles has backed him into a corner and now he doesn't now quite what to do, or how to act. But Stiles can't find the energy in him to lift his head and meet Derek's eyes, so he just stares at their shoes and notes a stray chess piece that he forgot to pick up; the white king, lying just to the left of Derek's feet.

Finally he feels the pressure on his wrist abate, and the heat radiating off of Derek's body fades away from him as he moves back, leaving him suddenly cold, and a slight shiver runs down his spine.

"Your dad's home." Derek tells him bluntly, moving over towards the window and disappearing with a soft click as Stiles hears the front door open. And Stiles stands there in the sudden emptiness of his room, and wonders why his chest hurts so fucking much, hating himself for the stupid tears that he has to rub furiously away from his eyes.

* * *

"_What time do you call this?"_

_Jamie looks up at Neil from the bottom of the stairs as he tugs off his boots, trying not to wince at the sharp pain that shoots up his back as he does so. _

"_Careful Neil, you're staring to sound like an old maid." Jamie tells him as he finally gets the boot off and makes his way towards the stairs, trying to pass Neil by only for him to reach out and catch his upper arm.  
_

"_You've been out late every night since your sister left town, don't think I haven't noticed." Neil tells him, leveling an even glare at him. "Your sister left me here to look after you, which I can hardly do if you go running off all hours of the night without telling me where you're running off to."_

"_I'm an adult, Neil, I don't need you to look after me." Jamie snaps back, tugging his arm out of Neil's grip and flying up the stairs, ignoring Neil's shout of "Jamie!" Once he gets to his room he slams the door to shut, before barricading it with his red armchair. _

_He walks over to his mirror, hearing Neil twist the knob a few times and pound on the door, before his footsteps clomp back down the stairs. He listens to them disappear, taking a deep, shaking breath, before pulling off his shirt and staring at his reflection in the mirror. _

_He looks like some fierce animal mauled him, a giant beast right from one of those adventure novels that Janet adores reading. Bruises in a plethora of different shades and sizes decorate his body, standing out painfully obvious against his pale skin. Red scratches adorn his back like claw marks and his hair is a terrible mess, parts of it beginning to stick up once again, the water that he had pressed it into place with losing its effectiveness. He wonders how many times his father has turned over in his grave at the sight of him, and whether or not his unrest has stirred the rest of the souls in the town's graveyard. _

_He places his hand against the mirror, marveling at the coolness of its surface. It always remains the same temperature, no matter what kind of body it reflects back at him. That of a upper class young man, with perfectly placed hair and clothes with every crease in place, though his eyes never seem to be so perfect. Always hollow, broken, weighed down by the phantom screams of __**that place **__that even now chase him out of his sleep. _

_Even now, when the mirror reflects the body of a dirty, sinful, unnatural whore, everything that his father said he was when he caught him kissing one of the kitchen boys and sent him away, though only after his mother had finally succumbed to her illness. So that she could not protest his action, and make him promise never to do such a thing. His father was a terrible, ugly, man, but he would've plucked the moon from the sky for her, and he was aware of his weakness; and refused to let it be used against him. _

_Still, he thinks, a sense of irony washing over him, who would've thought that place, or the memories of it at least, would be his sanctuary now? He blocks out __**his**__ every movement, every mere breath that presses against his skin, with images of that place. He runs through it again in his mind, gets lost in the memory of the frigid ice baths and the terrible, mind numbing, isolation sessions. The terrible shocks that coursed through his body, lighting up every nerve with excruciating pain and turning that body into a live wire. He recalls the dirty window beside his rickety bed, the rat that ran up on of the nurse's legs, the food that tasted like putrefied gruel and caused one of the girls to throw up for days before they finally took her away. Though she had been far too still at that point for any of them to believe it was for 'help.' _

_But now, in front of his mirror, he can't escape the reality of what happened, of what he is, and if he presses his nose to his forearm he can still smell the faint trace of __**his **__overpowering cologne lingering like the many other fingerprints on his skin. _

_Suddenly, with a crash, the door behind him swings open, the armchair skidding across the floor and Jamie spins around to face it. _

_Neil pushes his way into the room, throwing his toolbox-turned-battering ram onto the floor as he does so. "Right, now you and I are going to have a little—" _

_He stops dead in the middle of the room, his eyes widening in shock, and Jamie remembers at the last second the state he's in and scrambles towards his shirt._

_Neil grabs his shoulders before he gets the chance, pulling him to face him, anger flowing from him in waves of heat that Jamie can feel burning his skin; marking him deeper than the bruises and scratches have for the sinner and hell bound soul he is. _

_And his heart breaks, just that little bit more, the last torn, sloppily mended mess that remains, crushed by the horror and rage reflected in Neil's eyes. He'd wanted—God he'd wanted—so much to avoid this—that was why he'd—Dear God was it too much to ask? Jamie swallows hard and waits to be condemned by the words that Neil will surely spit at him, like his father had, all those years ago, and begs his sister to forgive him for ruining this for her as well. _

"_Who did this to you?" Neil demands, shaking him when Jamie simply stares back at him in shock at the amount of animosity behind his words. "Who did this to you?!"_

"_No one." Jamie stammers out, finally finding his voice, "No one did anything—"  
"Bullshit." Neil snarls. "Don't you dare try to tell me—"  
"It's none of your business!" Jamie shouts back, desperation and panic underlying his harsh tone. "Now let got of me and get out." _

_Neil's jaw clenches and he tightens his grip on Jamie's shoulders. "It was Morgenstern, wasn't it? I saw the way he was looking at you when he left the other day, all smug like he'd won some great big shiny prize at the town fair." _

_Jamie snorts. "Mr. __**Mark**__ Morgenstern? You're being ridiculous, not to mention slanderous. Do you know what would happen to you if someone heard you making those accusations?" He struggles against Neil's grip, lowering his eyes. "And on any account, I'm not some shiny prize."_

"_You ain't answering me." Neil grinds out, still refusing to loosen his grip. "Was it, or wasn't it, Morgenstern?"  
_

_Jamie opens his mouth to answer, but no sound comes out, and eventually he lets his gaze fall to the ground, avoiding Neil's eyes.  
_

"_So," Neil very nearly growls out, "it was, huh?"  
He drops Jamie's shoulders like they burnt his hands, and marches towards the door, the rage quivering through his frame causing a pool of dread to form in Jamie's stomach. "Neil, where are you going?" He asks, stepping forward slightly.  
_

"_Never you mind." Neil snaps back, opening his toolbox from where it sits next to the corner of his bed and pulling out a hammer.  
Jamie feels the mangled remains of his heart leap into his throat as breathy panic occupies his lungs. "No, Neil, don't you dare." The words tumble uselessly out of his mouth, Neil ignoring them as he closes his toolbox with an ominous clang that reminds him far too much of chains rattling against prison bars.  
_

"_Neil," He begs, running forward and clutching Neil's shoulder desperately, "Neil, please, I know what you're thinking, but please, please don't."_

_Neil tries to shrug him off, but Jamie clings tightly to him. "Let me go, Jamie."_

_Jamie shakes his head, desperate tears gathering in his eyes. "No, Neil, please I—" He swallows hard around the painful lump gathering in his throat. "It would break my sister's heart." 'Like it's breaking mine', rings unspoken and loudly throughout his mind, resonating through his aching chest. _

"_Janet doesn't have anything to do with this." Neil tells him firmly, tightening his grip on his hammer. _

"_That's bullshit." Jamie bites back at him, and Neil nearly drops his hammer in surprise, turning back around to face him. "Jamie—"  
_

"_I found the lockets, Neil." Jamie tells him, forcing back the tears and the terrible ache that rises up in his chests at the reminder. "The 'J' and 'M' engraved on them is hardly the epitome of subtly."_

_Neil now stares at him in open shock. "Jamie—"  
_

"_Mr. Morgenstern has something on me," Jamie cuts through him, "something big, and something that'll ruin my, Janet's, and our family's reputation for a long time coming. And—it'd break her heart if she had to loose you over it, whether through your actions or my own. And—and I'll be out of your way soon enough, Mr. Morgenstern's been hinting that I move in with him as his new assistant. So please," He begs, the tears beginning to slip free of his grasp on them, and he tightens his grip on Neil's arm a fraction as he lowers his head. "Please just let me do this, and you and Janet can be happy together, please."_

_A silence broken only by Jamie's sobs falls over the two of them, and the arm beneath his fingertips feels as still as a stone statue's. But after an eternity, Neil finally speaks. _

"_You stupid son of a bitch, Jamie." _

_His hammer falls to the ground with a clang as he wraps Jamie up in his warm arms, holding him together as Jamie's sobs stop, shock stretching over his features instead. _

"_Neil—"  
_

"_I love you." Neil tells him, tightening his grip on him as he buries his neck into his shoulder. "God, I love you, so much. Why do you think I'm always hanging around here, doing every little odd job that I can think of?"  
_

"_Well, but, Janet—" Jamie starts, confusion taking over his features. _

"_Is just a good friend to me." Neil finishes firmly, pulling back from his neck to meet Jamie's eyes. "She told me about the lunatic asylum, and she knows why you were really locked up there, and she knows…" He takes a deep breath, "she knows that I love you." _

_Jamie stares at him, not comprehending, it feels like he's been pulled into this strange alternate world, like he's wandering inside one of those desperate dreams he's so guilty of having. "You—you know? And—and she knows?"  
Neil nods, stroking his hair gently. "Yeah."_

_Jamie absorbs this information before clutching tightly to Neil's arm. "And neither of you h-hate me?"_

"_No, Jamie." Neil responds firmly. _

_But Jamie can't quite bring himself to believe him, though he wants so desperately to. "You don't think I'm disgusting, or unnatural, or dirty, or—"  
"No." Neil shakes his head, emphatically, looking at Jamie with such care and devotion glimmering back at him that Jamie is unsure of how to respond. "God, no, Jamie."_

_Jamie looks at him for a good long moment. "You love me." He chases the words with his tongue, marveling at their curious taste in his mouth and how they feel falling off his lips, and wonders at the desperate hope that flutters weakly within his chest as they sit in the air between them. _

_Neil moves his hand to cup his face, stroking his thumb across his cheekbones. _

"_Yeah, I do." _

_His features harden at his next words, his fingers tightening a fraction against Jamie's face. "Which is why I'm going to kill him for what he did to you."  
Jamie freezes. "Neil—"  
"How many times has he—" Neil breaks off, struggling to hold down the rage crawling back to the surface, "Is that where you've been going ever since Janet left?"_

_Jamie hesitates for a moment before nodding. "Yes, but Neil, you can't kill him."_

"_Can't I?" Neil shoots back, but he doesn't reach for his hammer again._

"_They'd—they'd hang you." Jamie's voice breaks on the last words, a frantic fear and panic pressing down on his chest, making it difficult to breathe. He holds Neil's gaze, lets him see that frantic fear and panic echoing through his eyes as he speaks. "Don't—don't make me see that."_

_Neil's jaw clenches. "Jamie—"_

"_I love you too." Jamie tells him, keeping his gaze. "I love you so, so much, more than I could ever—than I could ever hope to tell you. So please," He begs one final time, with every fiber of his being, "if you love me even half as much as I love you, promise me you won't do this."  
Neil hesitates, staring down into his eyes and Jamie tightens his grip, he's scared that Neil will turn to smoke and slip through his fingers if he doesn't. "Please."_

_A tense moment of stillness falls over the two of them, Jamie silently begging anything and anyone that will listen to make Neil agree, to save him from himself. _

"_I promise."_

_Jamie feels relief crash through his veins, with such force that it would've sent him to his knees if Neil's arms hadn't been holding him up. _

"_So long as you promise never to go to him ever again, you hear?" Neil states firmly, and Jamie nods quickly. "Don't you go getting any ideas that you have to do a damn thing for the good of me n' Janet. He so much as breathes around you, you come and get me right away, that understood?"_

"_Neil—" Jamie protests weakly, rolling his eyes._

"_Is that understood?" Neil repeats, immovably.  
Jamie sighs and gives him a small smile. "Yes, I understand." _

_Neil watches him a moment more before backing up slightly, letting go of his arms as he does so. "Right. Well, I suppose…I'll see you in the morning." He turns to go._

"_Wait!" Jamie calls and he spins around so fast Jamie worries he might trip over his own feet.  
_

"_Yeah?" He calls back, unsure and awkward in a way that Jamie has never seen him before.  
_

_Jamie feels awkward as well, and he stumbles around his next words, but manages to get them out all the same. "Would you—could you—would you mind staying?"_

_Neil glances back at him in open shock and Jamie scrambles to cover himself. "Not to—not to do anything untoward—I mean—just—would you mind just sleeping—you don't have to—I'm not trying to force you—or anything—"  
_

"_Jamie." Neil breaks in gently, making his way back towards him, laying a soothing hand on his shoulder with a soft smile. "It'd be my pleasure."_

_Jamie smiles back at him, and the two make their way over to the bed, where Neil cradles him in the soft, secure, heat of his arms. And for the first time in a long, long, time, Jamie falls asleep with a smile on his face._

* * *

_The memories of two glorious days together intermingle in his mind's eye. Walking around the garden in the warm sunlight, watching Neil work on his carpentry projects, the embarrassment that colors his cheeks when he wakes up to find Neil flipping through his sketchbook. The heat radiating off his body as his arms cradle him softly into sleep, a gentle, soothing hand running through his hair. He recalls the sensation of his fingertips brushing against his cheek, and pressing softly against his lips. Remembers the gentle, chaste press of Neil's lips against his, treating him so gingerly, delicately, like a fragile piece of glass that will shatter if he pushes too hard. No one else besides his sister has ever treated him so gently, and at first, he isn't sure of how to respond. But he soon gives in to his craving and bathes in Neil's gentle, chaste, and careful affections. _

_His sister comes back on the second day, and they all have a good laugh when Neil loops the silver locket around his neck, embarrassment coloring Neil's cheeks for a change. _

"_I saw them through the window when I was passing by the jewelry store on the way home, and next thing I know I'm four dollars out of pocket and walking away with them in one of those frilly little bags." Neil tells him, shaking his head, and Jamie laughs at the image. "You wouldn't believe the looks I got."_

_Janet spends the rest of the day telling Jamie what an oblivious idiot he is, after pulling him aside the minute she got home to wrap her arms around him and tell him just how much she loved him. And Jamie basks in the love she and Neil pour down on him, smiling more than he has in years. And when Janet finally tell him about the house that Neil's been building in the woods for them all to live in, where they can all have a bit more privacy than town life can offer them, he almost cries; which they tease him mercilessly for of course. _

_It's a little piece of heaven, spending time with the one he loves, and knowing that that affection is returned, and he finds himself beginning to hope that the rest of his life could be spent like this.  
_

_But, in the end, nothing in this cruel world in safe, not even the simplest of wishes.  
_

* * *

_He stirs awake to an intense heat, simmering all around him, and as he struggles to get up and regain his bearings, he hacks out a cough as poisonous smoke crawls down his throat to strangle his lungs. His eyes burn from a combination of the heat and smoke and a terrible orange-red glow flickers into his room from the space underneath his door. He shoots out a hand to his side, his hand searching desperately for Neil to shake him awake, but it meets nothing but empty space. Panic thrums through his veins, and he jumps out of bed, keeping his head low to try and avoid the smoke, but it still winds its way into his mouth and he coughs again at the acrid taste. _

_He stumbles out the door, flinching back at the wall of heat that rushes forwards to greet him, before stumbling out the door and into the hall. Fire adorns the walls, the ceiling above him and has begun to crawl up the stairs. "Janet! Neil!" He shouts, struggling to make his voice heard above the roar of the fire, and the smoke strangling the air from his lungs, lungs that heave and hack desperately for the tiniest scrap of clean air. _

_He runs down the stairs, stifling a cry of pain when the fire rises up and snatches at his clothes and skin, his mind occupied by two names, playing on repeat throughout his mind with every throb of his pounding heart. "Janet! Neil!" _

"_No need to shout, little Jay."_

_The voice makes his very marrow freeze, and he turns into the blazing remnants of his living room to see Mark standing there, pistol cocked towards Neil, who's been tied to a chair in the middle of the room. Neil struggles uselessly against his bounds, the wound on his forehead filling in the blanks in Jamie's mind as he puts together how Mark got the jump on him. Jamie steps forward in disbelief, only for his foot to catch on something and send him pitching forward. When he regains his balance, he turns to look at what he tripped over and struggles not to throw up, covering his mouth with his hand. The body of his sister is lying there, her eyes flown open in an eternal surprise as they stare into nothing and everything, blood stains her beautiful silk nightgown that she had just shown him yesterday. _

"_Jamie, run!" Neil shouts, but Jamie can't bring himself to move, caught by his sister's empty eyes. _

"_Move one inch towards that door and I swear I'll shoot him." Mark tells him firmly._

_Jamie turns and stares at him, his mind struggling to take in what his eyes are seeing. Mark's own eyes are crazed, like a mad dog's, and the glimmer he sees in them as they reflect the fire raging all around them reminds him of the ones he'd seen in his old roommate's. But his hands never waver as they point the pistol steadily at Neil's heart._

_Mark flicks his eyes over to his and makes an impatient jerk with his head, acting for all the world like they're standing outside in the calm night air of the garden and not in the middle of burning building. _

"_Come here." He orders and when Jamie simply stares at him Mark tightens his grip on the pistol, the sight of which sends him scrambling into the room. _

"_Jamie, don't listen, just—run!" Neil shouts frantically, tugging harshly on his restraints and Jamie notes dimly that he's never heard Neil be frantic before._

_Mark grins at him once he reaches him, an insane twitch pulling at the corners of his lips. "Good boy. I've missed you, you know, you haven't been turning up for our little meetings lately." He reaches out and snags the back of his Jamie's hair in a grip that brings tears to Jamie's eyes as he forces his head back. "I see, you've taken up with this scum now, hmm?" He spits his next words into Jamie's face with another sharp tug. _

"_You little slut."_

"_Don't touch him!" Neil roars from over in his chair and Jamie could swear that he can hear the wood groan above the crackling of the fire._

"_Please." He begs, his throat raw from the smoke and emotions rolling through him.  
"Let him go. I'll do whatever you want, I'll do anything, if you just let him go."  
_

_Mark laughs, a hysterical note slipping into it. "I'll let him go, I promise you that." He leers at him, moving his hand from the back of Jamie's head to yank his chin up painfully. "Just as soon as I've shown him what you look like on your back."_

_A loud crack echoes through the room above the fire's cackling and Jamie and Mark both turn towards the source of the noise. The chair that Neil was sitting in lies in pieces on the floor, and he storms towards Mark with murder in his eyes  
_

_Mark lets go of Jamie and points his pistol back towards Neil. "You asked for it!" He tells him, clicking the safety off, and Jamie feels a terrible, desperate panic alighting in his chest as he surges forward in front of Neil. "No!"  
_

"_Jamie!"_

_The bang of the gunshot is soon swallowed by the cackling of the fire and Jamie feels the force send him back a few inches, the ricochet also sending Mark back a couple of inches as he stares at Jamie in horror. Jamie blinks at him in confusion, wondering what he's staring at, when he glances down and notices the crimson stain spreading slowly across his shirt. _

"_Ah." He says softly, and feels his knees give way, someone's strong arms catching him just before he hits the ground. He glances back up at Mark, who takes another step backwards, shaking his head, only for the floor beneath his feet to give way. He lets out a terrible scream as he plunges through the floorboards, fire raining down into the hole with him as part of the ceiling above where he was standing collapses. He stares at the space where Mark was once for a moment, his mind feeling terribly sluggish and slow, and despite the heat, his body feels awfully cold.  
_

"_Jamie, Jamie," Neil's voice calls him back to the arms holding him and he shifts his head so that he can meet his eyes. Neil's face is covered in soot, the worry and panic covering his face somehow intensified by that terrible burnt orange glow; and realization slowly begins to trickle down into his mind.  
_

_"Neil." He breathes, reaching up a hand to brush his fingertips against his face and Neil catches his with his own, bringing it to his trembling lips. And Jamie…Jamie aches with such an awful greed. He wants so many more hours with this wonderful human being than he's been given, and his heart breaks for all the things that could've been. He can feel Death's clammy fingers coming up to grasp at him, and though there is no pain bleeding from the hole in his chest along with that terrible crimson color, he thrashes against the thought inwardly, kicks and screams against it, because he really, really doesn't want to die. Oh God, he doesn't want to die, and the unfairness of it all chokes him up more than any smoke ever could. _

_But he holds those feelings in, swallows them down heavily, and fixes Neil with his gaze. "You have to get out."_

_Neil shakes his head, figures he had to fall for someone as stubborn as a mule. "You mean __**we**__ have to get out."_

_Jamie stares at him, and struggles to keep his voice even. "Neil, you and I both know I'm not getting out."_

"_Don't talk like that." Neil tells him desperately, clutching tighter to his hand, but Jamie can barely bring himself to feel it. "We just…we just gotta get you to a doctor. So just, just hold on Jamie—please, just hold on." His voice breaks on the last word and Jamie wants nothing more than do what Neil asks, but more of his vision is falling away with every weak thump of his heart.  
_

_"Neil—" He tries  
_

_"Damnit Jamie, I said don't talk like that!" Neil shouts back at him, cradling him tighter in his arms and Jamie feels his arms shake around him as his own heart breaks that much more. _

_"Neil, I'm sorry—"  
_

_"Don't—just—" Neil breaks off with a giant heave of his chest and it takes the small drops of wetness landing on Jamie's cheek for him to realize that Neil is crying. "Please, Jamie—"  
_

_"Neil, shut up and listen." Jamie cuts through, hard and firm, even though his very being wants to rebel against the notion. "I'm dying, and there isn't a thing anybody can do for me anymore," He tightens his grip on the shirt and takes as deep a breath as his lungs can still manage to try and fight off the blackness rising up to take hold of his vision. "But you have to get out of here, alright, promise me that you'll leave me and get out of here."_

"_Jamie—"  
_

_"I love you," Jamie tells him, and the blackness has risen up and taken a hold of his vision, simultaneously taking Neil's image away from him as well. "I love you, so promise me," He grips as tightly as he can to Neil's shirt; putting all his remaining strength into it, god, he wishes he could see his face, "promise me—"  
_

_And then the darkness reaches up and swallows him completely, and he knows no more.  
_

* * *

_Except he does.  
_

_It's cold and dark, and he feels trapped, bound to something. __And he lies there in the dark for an interminable amount of time, wondering where Neil is, where his sister is, and if this is hell; his own little eternity in solitude, kept isolated from all the other souls because his is so decrepit, so torn, so dirtied, so broken._

_And then a voice reaches up to him, another soul, similar to his own echoes through the darkness, and he finds himself listening with his ears, seeing with his eyes, and his entire being sparks into motion with the mention of a single name: Neil.  
_

_He has to see him, please, oh please, let him see him again, __**please—**_

Stiles wakes up with his lungs scrambling for air as his hands scramble towards his dresser. _Neil_. His fingers finally find purchase on the object they're searching for, _Neil _his mind a confusion mess of emotions and memories _Neil_ tumbling over one and over and _Neil_ he only knows the desperation, the need to see him _Neil_ once more. With _Neil_ trembling hands, he unclasps the necklace _Neil _and slides it into place around his neck _Neil_ and clasps it closed.

_**Neil.**_

And Jamie Evans takes a breath for the first time in a hundred and forty years.


	5. Chapter 5

Next chapter, here we go! Thank you to everyone that has read and/or reviewed.  
**Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf, that belongs to Jeff Davis  
Warnings: Reference to suicide and minor character death, Violence, Language.**

* * *

_If there be nothing new, but that which is _  
_Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd,_  
_Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss _  
_The second burthen of a former child! _  
_O, that record could with a backward look,_  
_Even of five hundred courses of the sun, _  
_Show me your image in some antique book, _  
_Since mind at first in character was done! _  
_That I might see what the old world could say _  
_To this composed wonder of your frame; _  
_Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they,_  
_Or whether revolution be the same. _  
_O! sure I am, the wits of former days _  
_To subjects worse have given admiring praise._

_-Shakespeare, Sonnet LIX_

* * *

Scott silently pits the amount of trouble he would get in if he throttled Derek with one of the cat leashes, against the benefits that such an action would entail.

The '_Alpha_' has been the most grumpiest, growly, dick of a werewolf to ever roam the planet (or at least Beacon Hills), all morning. And the smug looks that Peter kept sending him every time he snapped at Isaac or growled at Deaton or argued with Scott were putting him in an even worse mood. It didn't help that Deaton's contact's solution to their problem, was a spell that laid wayward ghosts to rest but had to include of an object that they had a strong attachment to in life.

Finally, thank god, Deaton had turned to Derek. "Perhaps another search of the records at the library would be conducive to our efforts."  
Derek had caught the hint, and with another vague growl in everyone's direction stormed out of the vet's, slamming the door behind him, and when the Camaro had started up it sounds almost as angry as its owner.

Scott waits a good five minutes after he hears the Camaro tear out of the parking lot before turning to Isaac, just in case Derek's super hearing is as good as he claims it to be. "What the hell's wrong with him?"

Isaac raises his hands in mock defense. "Don't look at me. He's been pissed off ever since he came back from Stiles' last night." Isaac shoves his hands in his jeans. "He bit my head off for playing _chess_ with him."

Peter hums in agreement. "Trouble in paradise, perhaps?"

Scott's nose wrinkles in confusion. "But they're not dating," He sends a quizzical glance to Isaac, "are they?"

Isaac shakes his head. "Not that I know."

"Getting back to the matter at hand," Deaton says, drawing their attention back to him, "why would these witches or warlocks—"  
"Sorcerers." Isaac interjects, shrugging when they turn to look at him. "That's what Stiles calls them. It's gender neutral."

Deaton raises his eyebrow slightly, but continues, "These sorcerers, want us to know about the story behind a fire from a hundred and forty years ago?" He shakes his head. "It just doesn't make sense."

Scott opens his mouth to agree, when the rumble of a car engine meets his ears.  
"Sounds like you've got a customer, doctor." Peter drawls, leaning against the far wall, and waving his hand dismissively. "Don't worry, we'll wait."  
Deaton sends him a look that makes it obvious he isn't going anywhere as the bell rings over the shop door. Scott turns his head as a familiar scent makes its way into the room, frowning slightly. "It's Stiles."

"Ah, well maybe he can shed some insight into Derek's wonderful behavior this morning." Peter murmurs, a smirk stretching across his face.  
"Come on through, Stiles." Deaton calls and after a moment Stiles carefully makes his way into the room. And that in its self is weird; the only time Scott has seen Stiles moving carefully is when he was trying to balance all those plates for the fifth grade talent show. And Scott has the scar to prove just how well that turned out. He enters the room cautiously, his eyes flickering over them all, and he walks with such an elegant grace that Scott feels almost unsettled. He finds himself hovering on edge, and waiting for the kid with the jerky movements, who is always constantly in motion, to reappear.

Stiles watches them all warily as he closes the door softly behind him and straightens up. "Hello, I am looking for the vet, Deaton, is he here?"

Scott feels his brows furrows in confusion and he shifts forwards slightly. "Stiles—"

But with a sharp look from Deaton he reluctantly takes a step backwards, Isaac following his lead. "I'm the vet." Deaton takes in Stiles carefully, his scrutiny so obvious that Scott can see Stiles begin to squirm uncomfortably under it. "But I take it that you are not Stiles?"

Stiles hesitates before shaking his head and Scott feels dread pull at his gut, potent worry and the barest traces of panic lacing it. "No, I am not."  
"Then who the hell—" Scott begins, panic rising up, only for Deaton to silence him with another look.  
Deaton turns back to Not-Stiles. "May I ask who you are?"

"My name is Jamie Evans." Jamie tells them and Scott is pretty sure that everyone else is painfully aware of the strangeness of those words coming from Stiles' mouth.

"I'm looking for my—" He breaks off for a moment, taking a deep breath before continuing. "For my friend, Neil Milliard."

Deaton nods. "You realize—"  
"That I'm dead? Yes, that wasn't too hard to figure out." Jamie tells them dryly, casting a glance around the building. "And it appears by those steel machines that rather a lot of time has passed."

"Almost a hundred and forty years." Peter calls from the back of the room.

Jamie looks stunned, and freezes for a moment, before huffing out a laugh. "Well, gives new meaning to the term 'old soul'."  
"You didn't drive here, did you?" Scott asks, concern at what this _novice_ (to say the least) driver might have done behind the wheel of Stiles' jeep rising up.

Jamie shakes Stiles' head. "No, well, I was going to walk, but then a nice deputy pulled up and gave me a lift."

"What deputy?" Isaac questions, still watching Jamie warily.

Jamie screws Stiles' face up in confusion. "Parrish, I think, that's what his nametag read." A slight smile pulls across Stiles' lips. "He was very kind."

"Why were you looking for me?" Deaton asks, drawing their attention back to him.

"The boy, Stiles," Jamie says, pointing to Stiles' head, "he kept thinking your name, really loudly, and he wouldn't stop until I decided to come here. He even gave me directions."

"You can hear him?" Scott demands, scanning Stiles' body from head to toe. "Can he hear us?"

Jamie nods. "Yes."

"Then can you ask him what the hell he was thinking?" Isaac jumps in, shifting forward slightly and Jamie flinches back. Deaton shoots Isaac a look and he deflates slightly, but anger and concern still continue their tug-of-war on his face.

"I take it that he let him possess you willingly then?" Deaton asks.

Jamie nods earnestly. "Yes," He reaches up to his neck to tug out a silver pendant locket to show them all, "he put this on willingly."

Scott feels his face screw up in confusion as he stares at the locket uncomprehendingly. "What is that?"

Jamie glances over at him before shifting his gaze back to the locket, a sad sort of smile playing across his face. "It's my locket, Neil gave it to me shortly before I—"

He breaks off, his grip going knuckle white for a moment as he takes a deep breath and struggles to regain his composure. Isaac eyebrows shoot up in surprise at his statement, the gears ticking in his head as he struggles to fit the pieces together in his mind. And Scott still stares at the locket, struggling to fit the pieces of another puzzle together in his mind. "Where did Stiles get your locket?"

"He found it in the library with all those files." Isaac says and Scott turns to look at him incredulously. "You knew about this?"

He shrugs uncomfortably. "Stiles showed it to me when I went over yesterday," He shuffles his feet and mumbles the rest so low that the werewolves in the room have to strain to hear it. "He said that he'd been getting these weird dreams lately, except he said that they were memories, and that he thought there might be two ghosts. Jamie, who was attached to the locket, and Neil, the one that threw the door at us."

Jamie frowns. "That doesn't sound like Neil."

"People change over time." Peter remarks lightly, a smirk playing across his lips. "And one hundred and forty years is a very, very long time."

Scott looks back at Isaac, a horrible thought occurring to him. "Does Derek know?"

"No." Isaac shakes his head vehemently and then his face whitens. "Fuck."

Scott shakes his head just as vehemently. "I'm not telling him."

"Neither am I!" Isaac cries back.

Jamie tiles Stiles' head to the side curiously. "Who is this Derek?"

"Yeah, I'm not really in the mood to be thrown across the room, so that's a no for me too." Peter tells them, inspecting his nails with an eye roll.  
"I will inform Derek of the situation when he comes back." Deaton tells them all with a sigh. "For now, let's focus on what to do next."

"I want to see Neil." Jamie tells them, glancing at all of them carefully. "I was hoping that you would take me to him."  
Scott shares a look with Isaac and Deaton before turning back to him. "If we take you to see him, will you promise to leave Stiles' body afterwards?"

"And convince Neil to allow his soul to be laid to rest with yours?" Deaton adds, giving Jamie a meaningful look.

Jamie doesn't hesitate for even a moment and nods. "I promise."  
Deaton nods as well before turning to Scott. "Well, would you mind taking him up to the Milliard house?"

Scott hesitates for a moment before nodding. "Alright."

He looks towards Isaac, who nods and starts following him as he walks towards Jamie; Scott jerks his head towards the door as he does so. "C'mon, let's—"

"Ah, ah," Peter calls out, stopping them all in their tracks. They turn to face him and he nods towards the door as the rumble of a familiar car engine echoes through all of the werewolves' ears, shooting them all a smug grin. "Looks like our darling Alpha is back much earlier than we anticipated."

Isaac and Scott look at each other, their eyes widening to the size of planets. "Shit."

Jamie scurries away from the entrance to the back room as the door to the vet's bangs open and Deaton sighs loudly. Jamie ducks behind Scott and Isaac, backing up until he's standing against the back wall with Peter, partially hidden from view.  
Scott sends a desperate look to Isaac. "Maybe we could go out the back?"

"Don't even think about it." Derek growls as he slams open the door, making them all flinch slightly. He glowers menacingly at them all, before he catches sight of Jamie in Stiles' body at the back and starts to storm towards him.  
"Derek, before you—" Isaac tries, holding out his hands in a placating manner.

"There's something you should—" Scott begins, throwing his arms up to try and bar Derek from moving any further.

"Out of the way." He snarls at them, shoving through them and storming over to where Jamie is trying to phase through the wall.  
"Now, Derek—" Peter starts, mocking tone painfully evident.

"Shut up!" He bites at him, before turning back to Jamie.

"I thought I told you to sit your ass down and not move." He growls, his teeth elongating and Jamie's eyes go so wide that it's amazing they don't fall out of his head. "Instead, I see you heading towards here in one of the squad cars. Care to explain?" Scott strongly suspects it's only because Stiles is frantically whispering explanations in his mind, probably about the whole werewolf thing, that Jamie doesn't shriek and run out of there. Well, that, and the death grip that Derek has on his shoulders.

"I—I—" He stutters, only for Derek to press him harder against the wall with another low snarl. "Don't you get it? You're putting yourself and everyone here at risk by getting involved in this. How many times do I have to—"  
"Derek, that's not—" Isaac tries again.  
"I said, shut up." Derek shouts back, his eyes not leaving Stiles' face and he tightens his grip as he growls his next words. "Now, I'm going to drive you home and this time you're going to fucking stay there—"

And then Jamie screams.

Some unseen force blows Derek across the room and away from him, as the lights above their head flicker. Scott, Isaac, and Peter all scramble to cover their ears, pain ricocheting through them at the sheer volume. The sound is ethereal, echoing back on itself, and sends chills running down Scott's spine, as every single hair on his body stands straight up. Jamie is shaking, his hands curled into fists at his sides, and he almost seems to be flickering before them; like the phantom movements of two people are being swirled together. And as the scream dies down it is replaced by two voices speaking over top of each other.

"You—you—!" Jamie splutters, his face a mess of flickering shadows.

"Just—just calm down, he didn't mean to—it's just Derek, alright? He's my, well, he's—" Stiles says, the urgency in his tone rising rapidly with every word.

"He killed me!" Jamie screeches, covering his ears with his hands and shaking his head desperately, a dark red spot appearing on the grey material of Stiles' shirt, spreading further across his chest by the second. "Can't you see? His eyes—"

"He didn't—they're not the same—" Stiles tries, but it cut off by another one of Jamie's screams, as all the objects in the room begin to rattle dangerously.

"What the hell is going on?" Scott hollers above the noise, turning to look at Deaton and catching sight of a shell shocked Derek, staring with wide eyes at Stiles/Jamie.

Deaton shakes his head, struggling to hold on to the examination table in order to remain standing. "I'm not sure."

"They're the same!" Jamie howls, staring straight at Derek. "Same eyes, same—he set us _aflame_, he ruined _everything_."

"No, he didn't—he would never—he's not Morgenstern." Stiles counters fiercely, shaking his head. "Please, you have to calm down."

Jamie shakes his head desperately, a hysterical laugh chasing his words. "Calm down? He murdered me!"

The light to the left of Scott explodes, shards of glass raining down as the sparks flare and the action seems to snap Derek out of whatever daze he's been locked in, allowing him to spring to his feet and start to make his way back over to Stiles.  
Jamie turns to face him, terror flowing out of him waves, the shaking in the room intensifying. "Stay back!" He stretches out one hand towards Derek, only for his other hand to grab it and hold it back.  
"Don't!" Stiles calls out desperately, panic soaking into his words.

"Let go!" Jamie shouts back, trying to wrestle one hand out the other's grip.  
Stiles slams the arms down to his side with a fierce yell. "I said, don't!"

A wave of stillness pulses out from his body, restoring the lights to their normality, and ceasing the fierce rattling movements of all the objects in the room. Stiles stills too, almost turning to stone where he stands, he eyes flicking towards Derek for a moment as his mouth starts to move; only for his eyes to roll up into his head and his body to slump forward towards the cold hard ground. Scott jumps up, feet scrambling to make it in time to catch him before he causes himself further brain damage, but Derek reaches him before him, catching Stiles securing in his arms.

"Stiles!" He calls turning Stiles around in his arms and shaking him slightly, but Stiles' head just lolls to the side, his body slack and limp as a rag doll.

"Calm down, Derek," Deaton tells him, making his way over and taking Stiles' pulse, locking them all in a tense silence until he steps back and nods. "He's fine."

"What the hell just happened?" Isaac demands, coming to stand beside Scott.

"If I had to guess," Deaton says, looking down at Stiles carefully, "I think we just found out why those sorcerers were so desperate for us to know the whole story."

"What do you mean?" Scott asks, stepping forward to get a better look at Stiles, ensuring for himself that he's really all right, before turning back to Deaton.

"You said that Stiles told you he'd been getting flashes of memories from the locket, right?" Deaton says, turning to Isaac, who nods quickly before flinching back as Derek turns to glare at him. "You knew about this?"

Isaac throws his hands up defensively. "Only since yesterday." He protests, taking another step backwards at Derek's answering growl. "Why didn't you tell me—"  
"If we could please save the hostilities for a later date." Deaton cuts in firmly, fixing them all with meaningful looks, and waiting until they all grudgingly return them. "As I was saying, I think the sorcerers might have tweaked some of the memories locked away in that locket."

"When you say tweaked, do you mean like, say, I don't know, changing the eye color of a certain murdering arsonist to resemble that of a certain friendly neighborhood alpha?" Peter says dryly, making his way over to their happy little group as well.

"But why?" Scott asks, frowning. "They couldn't have known for sure that Stiles would've taken it home, or that Stiles would even be the one to go looking for those files. And even if they did, what's the point?"

"Maybe they hoped that the residual resentment that Jamie held towards his murderer would pass along to whoever received the locket through his memories and spark dissent among our ranks." Deaton replies thoughtfully; "You are quite formidable when you work together. Perhaps they felt that you were getting too close for comfort in order for their plans to continue smoothly."

"Ok, but that still doesn't explain how they knew he, or any of us, would take it home." Isaac points out.

Deaton nods. "Which begs the question, was this a trap for any one of us, or set specifically for Stiles? And was it set as a long shot bet that Stiles would take the locket home, or was it set up with the knowledge that Stiles' curiosity would inevitably get the better of him and cause him to take the locket home?"

"Get to the point." Derek growls out, shifting his grip on Stiles to hook his arms under his legs and lift him into a better position to support his ragdoll body.

"What I'm asking is, was this someone who knew enough about Stiles' character to predict that he'd likely take the locket home, or was this just set as a vague trap that any one of you might have stumbled into?"Deaton shakes his head. "Either way, it's probably best that he doesn't see your face again until both of the ghosts are laid to rest."

"Why don't we just take the fucking locket off?" Derek demands, moving one of his hands to the silver chain around Stiles' neck, and maybe it's just a trick of the light but Scott could swear that his hands are shaking slightly.

"You mean besides all the ways that ripping the kid's spirit forcibly from Stiles' body might go horribly wrong?" Peter drawls, making his way over to Derek.

"Peter is correct." Deaton says, and Scott wonders how much it cost him to say that. "Ripping Jamie's spirit forcibly from Stiles' body could cause a number of problems, we could end up ripping Stiles' spirit out of his body instead, or by tearing apart the connection, mash their two spirits together." Deaton levels Derek with an even look, making sure to enunciate his next words clearly. "It's much safer for Stiles if we leave the necklace on, and let Jamie leave of his own free will. So please—"

"And how are you going to do that?" Derek snaps, tightening his grip on Stiles a fraction and Scott feels surprise shoot through him. For all that Stiles complains about Derek never giving a damn about him, he sure does seem to care a hell of a lot about him now.

"Our plan, is to take Jamie up to the Old Milliard House and let him talk Neil into being laid to rest." Deaton tells him, but Derek is backing away before he can even finish his sentence.  
"And what if it doesn't work?" Derek argues. "What if Neil convinces him to stay instead, then what happens to Stiles?"

"Stiles let Jamie possess him of his own free will." Deaton says firmly, "He could hear everything we said when we came up with the plan and didn't object to—"  
"If I listed off all the times that Stiles nearly got himself killed out of his own free will then we'd be here all day." Derek sneers, still not loosening his grip on Stiles.

"If you don't let the nice vet borrow your chew toy for their little plan, then we will be." Peter cuts in. "Now play nice, Derek."

"Derek." Scott says, moving forward, his hands outstretched towards Stiles.

Derek glowers at Scott's hand for a few minutes and Scott begins to worry that he might bite it off before he finally loosens his grip on Stiles and lowers him carefully into Scott's arms. An impressive feat, considering the rage and frustration bubbling through his frame and setting Isaac and Scott's werewolf side on edge. And underneath all that anger, slipping in and out of Scott's senses, is worry. It sends Scott's eyebrows twitching slightly in confusion, and it's definitely something that he'll have to talk to Stiles about later.

Deaton turns his glare towards Deaton, jaw so tightly clenched that Scott thinks it's a minor miracle he's able to form words. "I'm holding you responsible for him."

He storms towards the door, calling over his shoulder. "If he fucks this up and more people die, it's on your heads."

Ah, so that's what Derek was worried about. Scott feels indignant anger rise up within him again, as he looks at the fragile one hundred and forty seven pounds in his arms that feels so much lighter than that. He guessed Stiles was right, Derek didn't give a damn what happened to him. But he should, Stiles was so much more than some research guru. He was Scott's best friend, kind, smart, and funny, all wrapped up in a thick veneer of sarcasm. And if Derek couldn't bring himself to see through that veneer, well, then it was his loss.

Peter heaves a dramatic sigh and starts to head out of Deaton's as well. "I'm afraid that's my ride, gentlemen, so I must leave this happy little gathering as well." He casts a glance towards Stiles in Scott's arm, shaking his head slightly and muttering something under his breath that Scott can't quite catch, even with his super hearing.

He raises his voice once he gets to the door, turning to look at them all before he leaves. "And do make sure he gets home in one piece, would you? I hate to think what Derek would do to the new furniture I bought him if he didn't."

* * *

_Everything's a mess, a jumble and tumble of feelings and emotions that meld and mingle together so much that Stiles isn't sure which are his and which are Jamie's.  
_

_After a long while, he manages to collect himself, separating all those foreign emotions from his. It helps that Jamie's glow a soft, kind, brown, while his glow a soft blue. And soon he feels more like himself again, all the pieces of his puzzle, no matter how battered and worn they may be, slipping firmly into place. _

_He stands up, glancing around the huge, white room, they've landed themselves in, before spotting Jamie, curled up in the corner with his head between his knees. Images flash across the pure white walls, filling them up for a moment before fading away the next. __He watches the walls, curious, before realizing that it's the same image, playing over and over again in an endless loop. Derek's eyes, pasted over Morgenstern's face._

"_He's not like him." He insists, turning to Jamie and walking towards him. _

_Jamie shakes his head. "I know those eyes, men like that don't change."_

"_Wha—Derek and Mark are two completely different people!" Stiles struggles not to shout, frustration pulsing through him.  
Jamie shakes his head again, clutching his knees closer to his body. "You don't know that."_

"_I've seen Mark," Stiles points out, making his way further over to Jamie. "And I know Derek." _

_He crouches down beside him, but Jamie still won't turn his head to look at him. _

_Stiles sighs. "Look, if you won't believe what I'm telling you, then let me show you."_

_He extends his hand towards Jamie, who looks at it warily. "Like you showed me."_

_The two stare into each other's faces, their own face looking back at them, and Stiles wonders if this is what it would've been like to have a twin. It's like staring into a reflection that has its own free will, and the thought vaguely terrifies him, wondering what this mind could do with his face. _

_But he doesn't have long to wonder on that, because eventually Jamie reaches forward tentatively, placing his hand in Stiles and the two are nearly bowled over by the force of the memories flooding between the two of them._

"_This is private property."_

_Derek glares at them both from across a clearing, and Stiles forces his mouth to move amid the shock of seeing him in town again. "Sorry, man, we didn't know."  
_

_He can vaguely feel Scott's curiosity and wariness beside him amid the tumble and whirl of thoughts moving throughout his mind. He recalls faded flashes of a charred house, all the things that made it a home burnt out of it. His father's stern voice, telling him to wait in the car, as he tried to peer around his body to ash and cinder that lay beyond. A terrible, morbid curiosity rising up within him, and the way he had slipped out of the car, tumbling on his awkward, gangly ten year old legs towards the flashes of red and blue lights. And he recalls the snatches of conversation he had caught "damn lucky that their play rehearsal went on so late, otherwise they'dve been in the house too" before catching sight of two kids, both looking like Death had torn away everything of value from them and slapped them on the face when they tried to follow after._

_ Stiles knew the feeling, and as he stared at their desolate faces, he was reminded of his mother, painfully, and without warning. And when he stared back up at their house, he felt a wave of immeasurable sadness crash over him, like something he didn't know existed had been torn from his grasp, leaving an empty, gushing hole in his heart where it had once been. Tears had welled up in his eyes and he had struggled to hold down the wail in his throat from escaping, before a hard pull on his jacket had turned him towards the boy he had seen earlier. _

"_What are you doing here?" He demanded, and his voice was hard and scratchy, wreaked by the intense emotions coursing through his veins. And when Stiles had just stared at him, he had shaken him, hard enough that Stiles nearly toppled over. "Answer me!"  
"I—I'm sorry." Stiles tells him, the tears in his eyes frozen by fear, but they glimmer painfully obviously as the flashes of red and blue light play across his face. _

_The boy had stiffened like Stiles had spat in his face, and tightened his death grip, his mouth curving into a snarl. "You—"  
"Derek." A voice had cut in, and Stiles peered around the boy's shoulders to see the girl from earlier, her face awash with pain and grief. "Don't."_

_Derek had clenched his jaw, tightening his grip further on Stiles' shoulders, when, by a trick of those flashing red and blue lights, his sister's eyes had glowed red and he had dropped Stiles' shoulder like they had burnt him. His sister had watched him back away from Stiles and storm over to the side of the house they had come from, before turning her gaze to Stiles. _

_Stiles had hunched further into himself, scared to meet her gaze, afraid of being yelled at again, though he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth; because he was, he truly was, and he felt the pure loss etch itself into his bones as he said: "I'm sorry."_

_He had tensed, waiting for the girl to start yelling at him, to grab him roughly like her brother had done. And when her arms grabbed him and pulled him closer to her, he prepared for the worst. And so he felt surprise jump through his bones when she pulled him tight to her chest and clutched at him, sobs wracking her body as she howled her anguish into that terrible night. He had felt her sadness, her grief, wrapping around his own, and so clutched back at her trying to fill up the gaping wound in her heart with the soft warmth his small body had to offer. _

_He blinks out of the memory as Derek tosses Scott's inhaler towards them, and watches Derek walk away, with his jaw hanging open before turning to Scott. "Dude, that was Derek Hale—"_

"_And trust me, you want to."_

_Derek holds his gaze with those strange hazel green eyes of his and Stiles feels surprise and a small realization wash over him. Maybe Derek isn't trying to ruin Scott's like quite so badly as he keeps insisting, maybe he actually does care what happens to that glue eating, now literal puppy dog of a friend he has. Or maybe it's because he's worried that if Scott gets exposed for what he truly is it won't take people too long to connect him to Derek. Either way, he thinks, just before his Dad yanks open the door and hauls him out of the squad car, there might be more to Derek Hale than he thought—_

_Derek is dying on the floor of the vet's office and Stiles feels desperate panic course through his body, and all that fills his head is a desperate mantra about how Derek can't possibly die, not strong, brooding, Derek, and oh god, what the hell are they going to do if Derek dies—_

_And now Derek has him pinned against a door, growling threats that Stiles is fairly sure he will never act on. Maybe it's the only way he knows how to communicate with people now, the only way he has left to protect himself from them. Even the ones that help him when he's been shot through the fucking arm, and hide his fugitive ass from the police and, more importantly, Stiles' dad. God, like Scott said, couldn't Derek try to trust them for at least half a second—_

_Peter is smiling at him, in that terrible, awful, serial killer way, that tells Stiles that he is about five seconds away from no longer breathing the sterile, hospital corridor air. And this is it, he's actually going to die, no one's coming in to save him, certainly not Derek, who hates his guts so much that it's no surprise he'd rather leave him to be torn to be pieces by Peter than risk his own life to save him. _

_A sickening crunch of bone draws his attention over to where Derek is standing, the psychotic nurse dropping to the floor as blood streams from her no doubt broken nose._

"_That's not nice, she's my nurse." Peter complains, shaking his head slightly.  
"She's a psychotic bitch helping you kill people—get out of the way." Derek fires those last few words towards Stiles, who struggles to comprehend just what has happened over the surprise crashing through his system. Derek ran into the hospital, knowing full well that there was a psychotic alpha on the loose inside it, just to—to what? Save him? Out of some sudden feeling of responsibility because the psychotic alpha that's been tearing around town ripping people's throats out is his uncle? Probably, after all, why would Derek bother saving him—_

_He watches as Isaac effortlessly snaps the hunter's arm before slamming his head back against the wall and feels panic and awe intermingle in his body. What chance does his humanity have against the ferocious power of a werewolf? He prays to whoever can hear him that Isaac doesn't suddenly decide he'd like to have a taste of Stiles' flesh._

_The crash and crunch of glass breaking draws his attention over to where Derek has made his way into the room, stepping on the vial of wolf's bane, the burgundy liquid spilling out all over the floor. The sound catches Isaac's attention as well, and he turns towards it, but catches sight of Stiles instead, and the violent hunger that echoes through his eyes sends Stiles scrambling desperately towards the ground, panic flaring through his veins with every desperate pulse of his heart as Isaac starts to lumber towards him. _

_A loud roar fills the room, the force of which sends Isaac scrambling backwards, shrinking into a quivering ball. Derek watches him carefully, gradually allowing the red to fade from his eyes, and his body to relax, and Stiles feels another wave of awe shoot through him. _

"_How'd you do that?" Stiles asks, but the question bouncing around in his head is why._

_ Derek turns to look at him, something unreadable mingled with just a little bit of smugness clashing over his face and eyes. "I'm the alpha—"_

"_Run!"_

_Derek shoves him backwards, turning his back to the lizard thing, and Stiles doesn't have to tell him how monumentally stupid that is because sure enough, those paralyzing claws reach out and slash Derek across the neck. _

"_Derek, your neck." He tells him as Derek reaches a confused hand towards it, stumbling backward, and Stiles runs forward to catch him before he can hit the ground. He slings his arm over his shoulder, and holy fuck, Derek is heavy. It's like dragging one of those Easter Island heads around the edge of the pool. _

"_Call Scott." Derek bites out and Stiles struggles for his phone, while trying to keep a grip on him, but he slips from his grasp and falls into the pool with a desperate call of "No, Stiles—Stiles!"  
Stiles' phone falls to the ground as well, and he glances towards it helplessly before glancing back towards the pool where Derek is sinking steadily towards the bottom. _

_He hesitates for only a moment, if he goes for his phone then he could call Scott and get him there faster, but if he doesn't get Derek back up above water soon then there'll only be one person to save when Scott does get here. And the thought of Derek not being there to save is—unthinkable. Stiles—they need him, even if he's a total pain in the ass, and Stiles doesn't waste one moment more before jumping into the pool after him—_

_His clothes are soaked, and they hang heavy on his frame, and chills run down his spine from the frigid night air along with the drops of water running down from his hair. And that can account for the indignant anger as Derek walks away without so much as a thank-you, muttering about how he's going to kill the Kanima, but not the hurt, that rises up so sharply in his chest—_

_Matt's foot cuts harshly into his windpipe, cutting off his lungs and sending him spluttering desperately for air, his face beginning to turn red and he can feel the anger and desperation rolling off of Scott as he agrees to Matt's demands. And the anger rolling off of Derek is hardly a surprise, figures that Derek would be upset that the vulnerable human would ruin things for them yet again—_

"_Take him!" Derek shouts, and Stiles struggles to retain any idea of what is going on amid his confusion about the gunfire and explosions that they heard earlier. But he senses Scott's hesitation and he looks towards Derek, trying to convey with his eyes that Scott should help Derek up first because, really, who's going to be more use in a fight? _

_"Go!" Derek insists, pulling himself up further and Scott wastes no more time in slinging Stiles' arm around his neck and pulling him to his feet. Stiles wants to crane his neck around to catch a glimpse of Derek, make sure that he's all right, but he can't move—_

_Can't move fast enough, barely manages to, any slower and the Lamiae would've speared Derek like Peter had—_

_Derek is surprisingly gentle when he cleans Stiles' wound, and even more so when he talks Stiles down from his panic attack, something that Stiles never thought he'd see—_

_Derek's words in the kitchen sting deep, and Stiles doesn't know when he started caring enough about Derek for his opinion to matter—_

_But there's something about the way Derek's arms feel wrapped around him, pulling him in close and holding him there, that makes something warm and fuzzy settle down in Stiles' chest, his stomach doing little flip flops—_

_Derek's apologizing, his words growled, but sincere—_

_Derek's promising him that nothing is wrong with him, that he's not like her—_

"_Your dad's home." Derek tells him bluntly,_ _moving over towards the window and disappearing with a soft click as Stiles hears the front door open. And Stiles stands there in the sudden emptiness of his room, and wonders why his chest hurts so fucking much, hating himself for the stupid tears that he has to rub furiously away from his eyes—_

_And Stiles lets go of Jamie's hand._

_Jamie stares at him in understanding, a wry smile pulling his lips. "You love him."_

_Stiles could not be more surprised if Jamie had punched him. "What? No, I—"_

_Jamie's smile grows. "Maybe you can fool yourself, but you can't fool me." He stares at his hand. "Those feelings, they're exactly like the ones I have for Neil."_

_Stiles shakes his head desperately. "That's not—I don't—"  
"Don't you?" Jamie counters softly.  
_

_Stiles stares at him, the refusal dying as his lips, as realization begins to dawn on him; the rush of feelings and memories he just showed Jamie washing over him as the pieces to the puzzle he's been vehemently denying exists finally slide into place. And holy fuck-he has feelings for Derek. Fuck. Could he have picked anyone worse to have a crush on?_

_Jamie lets out a soft laugh as Stiles' shocked expression. "You're lucky, you know? I wish I'd had the opportunities that you have with Derek with Neil." _

_Stiles shakes his head again, his new knowledge sitting heavy in his chest. "Don't compare me and Derek to you and Neil. You guys were like Romeo and Juliet." He and Derek are more like Èponine and Marius. _

_Jamie hums in disagreement. "I prefer Tristan and Isolde, less ritual suicide."_

_He gets to his feet. "I think it's time we woke up, don't you?"_

_At Stiles' hesitation, he loses all traces of humor and meets his gaze with serious and earnest look. "Don't worry, I promise not to hurt Derek." _

_Stiles feels slightly relief buzz through him, but his panic over his recent realization grows. "You won't—"  
Jamie shakes his head. "I won't tell him either." He hesitates for a moment. "Would you mind, sleeping for a little bit? Just until I've talked to Neil and we've both—" He pauses for a moment unsure of what to say, "gone wherever it is we go next."_

_Stiles nods. "Yeah, ok, I understand that you two, you know, want to be alone." He sends him an earnest, though slightly awkward glance. "Good luck."_

_Jamie smiles back. "Thank-you."_

_The white room around them begins to fade away and Stiles feels himself slipping back into the blackness, as Jamie fades away from him too, his last words ringing in his ears. _

"_I wish you all the happiness in the world."_

And as Stiles falls asleep, Jamie wakes up.

* * *

At the soft groan, Scott and Isaac peer into the back of Scott's car, watching as Jamie or Stiles or whoever it is currently, blinks awake. "Hey, uh—"  
"Jamie." Comes the reply, as Jamie sits further up, glancing around the car curiously. "Where—?"  
"It's my car," Scott tells him, "we didn't know how long you'd be out for, and Deaton says that the longer, uh, Neil is here the more warped his spirit is going to become because it was brought back forcibly by a Sorcerer's spell. So," He nods towards the decrepit house through his windshield "we figured we'd better hang out here while we waited for you to wake up. Deaton put some special dust or something on the car so that Neil won't know we were here until we get out."

Jamie peers up at the house, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "Ah, so that is it." He mumbles, almost as though he's speaking to himself.

Scott nods, "Yeah, apparently he built this place after the—you know." He breaks off awkwardly, not sure if mentioning the fire that Jamie died in is the best thing to do right now. "He's buried here, along with you and your sister."

Jamie absorbs this information silently, before his hand reaches for the handle in a rush of motion and he's stepping out before Scott can call him back.

"Wait, shouldn't we—" Scott begins, but Jamie slams the door before he can finish his sentence.  
"You'd think someone raised in a time of petticoats and corsets would have better manners." Isaac remarks dryly, before undoing his seatbelt and jumping out as well.

Scott watches him go incredulously before giving a sigh and undoing his own seatbelt. Really, what was the point of the subtly lecture that Deaton gave them before they left if they all just jumped out and ran towards the house?

Jamie is almost to the house by the time Scott catches up with Isaac, both of them freezing as the whispers begin to start. Except now Scott can make out what they're saying. In a thousand different tones and at a hundred different volume levels, the same name, over and over again: _"Jamie."_

"Neil," Jamie calls, glancing over the house carefully, "I'm here! Neil," He twirls around the clearing, desperation taking over his movements, "Neil, where are you?"

Something instinctual flares deep within Scott's gut and he finds his gaze flying up to the empty space where the front door had used to hang before it flew at them a few days ago. A figure steps out, a pure mass of black shadow, that causes every single hair on his body to stand on end. Fear unlined with panic rises up to grasp at his lungs and he feels himself shifting forward slightly, Isaac doing the same beside him, just in case he needs to rush between Stiles and this thing that the wolf part of him keeps insisting is a threat. It goes against every instinct he has to dig his feet into the ground and let that figure get closer and closer to Stiles, and by the way that Isaac is gnashing his teeth beside him, he can tell that he's not the only one waging that silent battle.

Jamie seems to have no qualms about it though, a smile spreading across his face and he steps further towards the figure. "Neil."

And he must be able to see something that Scott and Isaac can't because there is no way that that much devotion and adoration, echoing through his tone, can possibly belong to that ethereal dark shape.  
The dark shape moves towards Sti—Jamie, Scott reminds himself as he digs his feet further into the ground. It stretches out its hand, bringing the vague image of a hand to brush against Jamie's cheek—

The gunshot rings out impossibly loud through the clearing and Scott watches as Stiles—because it is Stiles, that is his best friend's body right there in front of him, no matter who or what is possessing it—crumples. The dark shape lets out a terrible screech, clutching at Stiles' body and holding it up with its hands, and though Scott can't make out its eyes, he can swear that it turns its gaze to stare at the band of hunters just as Scott and Isaac turn theirs.

Chris Argent has yanked a gun out of a young man's hand, and is yelling more ferociously and with more heat to his voice than Scott has ever heard before. The young man is flinching with every word that comes out of his mouth. The sight doesn't do anything to calm the furious instinct to leap on the young man and tear him apart for hurting Stiles, for daring to injure a member of his pack. He can catch bits of Chris' yelling from where they are across the meadow.

"What part of 'don't shoot' is too difficult for you to understand?" He demands and Scott takes a dangerous step towards them, dangerous because he's not sure what he might do if he manages to make it across that meadow, when the dark shape lets out a terrible angry roar, that melds with another, just as furious roar, as Derek storms over to where the hunters are gathered. Chris Argent turns to look at him, shouting at the other hunters to put down their weapons, before cocking his own gun at Derek and yelling at him to stand down.

"Neil." Jamie's breathless voice draws Scott's attention back to where the dark shape is clutching Stiles' body to it defensively, covetously. "Neil, please, don't just—"  
He lets out a sob that pulls harshly on Scott's heartstrings. "I just want to rest. I want to see Janet, and mother, again, can't we just—"

The dark shape lets out another unintelligible roar, the house and ground beneath their feet beginning to shake with such force that it knocked Scott, Isaac, the hunters, and Derek to the ground. It sends Stiles' body over to the porch bench, shadowy tendrils reaching up and ensnaring his wrists despite Jamie's protests and struggles. "No, no, Neil, don't you dare, Neil!"  
The dark shape moves towards the hunters, its hands stretching out, shadows dancing at its side, snaking along the ground towards where they all lie, cowering in their boots, with the exception of Chris. And the ground keeps shaking around them, jarring all the bones in Scott's body and clacking his teeth together, and Scott wonders, briefly, if they're actually going to die—

"Enough!" A blinding white light fills his vision for a moment, and the ground stills, the jarring in his bones abating so fast it's almost dizzying.

Jamie is back on his feet, staring at Neil, who is no longer a dark shape, but the translucent, hovering image of a man with messy brown hair and blue overalls. Stiles' clothes have changed to a crisp white shirt, with a back and gold embroidered vest, black pants, bowtie and shoes. Scott glances around the clearing, wondering if he's the only one seeing this, but judging by Isaac's impossibly wide eyes, he isn't. And the house is no longer the decrepit waste that it was before Scott last blinked, it is impressive, with shiny windows and perfectly painted exterior, the structure, sound, safe, and secure.

Jamie looks back towards it. "So this is it, huh?"

He smiles and turns back to Neil. "I'm sorry I didn't get to see it when we were," he breaks off awkwardly, "you know."

Neil nods, making his way towards Jamie, who shoots him a wry smile. "I have to say, you don't look much older than when I last saw you."

"I tried Jamie, I did, I swear." Neil tells him, bringing his hands to cup Jamie's face before shaking his head. "But with Janet and you gone, I just—" He shakes his head, bringing their foreheads together. "I couldn't handle it."

Jamie brings up his hands to Neil's shoulders, breathing in deeply, and Scott can see that he's fighting back tears. "You broke your promise."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry." Neil tells him, shaking slightly, "I just couldn't—"

"Shh, don't worry about that now." Jamie tells him gently, moving his fingers down his arms to join their hands together. "Don't you think we've kept Janet waiting long enough?"

Neil hesitates, turning back towards the hunters slightly. "But they—"  
"She's going rain hellfire and fury down on us if we're any later." Jamie diverts smoothly, a small laugh chasing his words. "Come on, Neil, let's go."

Neil turns back to face him, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yeah."

He brings his lips down to Jamie's, longing tearing at his body, as he breathes his next words against them. "I've missed you."  
"So have I." Jamie breathes back, and their lips finally meet for the first time in a hundred and forty years. That brilliant white light comes back, surging through the clearing and blinding them all, blocking the image of Jamie and Neil's embrace from their eyes, and when the light fades away, the house in back to its old decrepit state, Neil is gone and Stiles is—

"Stiles!" Scott yells, making his way over to where his best friend lies, unmoving on the ground, Isaac right on his heels. His old clothes are back, and the necklace lies beside him, the clasp broken and the pendant open to reveal a picture of Neil and Jamie smiling happily together. The scent of blood reaches Scott's nose before he reaches Stiles' body and his eyes scan Stiles' body desperately for the source, before they note the blood staining his shirt at his left shoulder.

"Out of the way." Derek snarls, pushing through Scott to tear away the fabric at Stiles' shoulder, inspecting it carefully for a long moment before moving backwards slightly. "It's just a scratch." He determines, scooping his hands under Stiles' body and pulling him into his arms and Scott feels relief crash through him, sending him slumping down towards the ground. "Thank God." He mutters, shaking his head.

He swears, Stiles is going to give him an actual heart attack one of these days.

"Derek, Scott."

Isaac, Scott, and Derek all turn to face Chris Argent, who stands before them with a stoic expression on his face. "I want to offer my apologies for what happened, and to assure you that it will never happen again."  
Derek clenches his jaw and levels Chris with a dark look, his eyes glowing their familiar bright red. "Make sure it doesn't." He growls out dangerously.

Chris nods once, sternly, before turning and heading back towards the group of hunters.

A groan from Derek's arms drags Scott's attention back to Stiles, who begins to stir in Derek's arms before slowly blinking awake. "Derek?" He rasps out, before turning to glance at Scott and Isaac, a weary smile pulling at the edges of his lips. "So, we did it, huh?" He shifts in Derek's arms and winces as that movement pulls on his shoulder. "Argh—my shoulder stings like a bitch. And my shirt's _ripped_—what—"

"Well then, next time, don't get shot." Isaac tells him, his dry tone failing to disguise the relief hidden within it.  
Stiles' eyes go wide and he turns to look at Scott. "I got _shot_? By who?"

"Some hunter that showed up with Allison's dad." Scott tells him, his own relief painfully obvious in his tone.

Stiles' face screws up in confusion. "Allison's dad showed up? Why—"

He's cut off as Derek drops him, causing him to yell before Derek catches his shoulders in a verified death grip, that has Scott surging forward, protest half formed on his lips before Stiles beats him to it. "What the hell—?"  
"Just what were you thinking?" Derek demands, and when Stiles doesn't answer him fast enough he shakes him. "Huh? You almost got everybody here killed."  
Scott frowns. "That's not—"

"I was—" Stiles starts, but Derek cuts them both off.  
"Don't make excuses." Derek bites. "You said—you threw a fit over me not telling you about Morgenstern and then you go and—and lie to my face? Make my Beta promise that he'll lie for you too?" He tightens his grip on Stiles, fury rising exponentially in his next words. "You promised that you'd stay at your house until this whole thing was over, but you just couldn't handle being left out of the action could you? I can't even trust you to do this one fucking thing and you want me to trust you when it comes to the safety of this town? The safety of my pack—"

This time, it's Derek that's cut off, with a blow to the head from Stiles' fist, sending him stumbling backwards a few inches in surprise, and causing him to release his death grip on Stiles' shoulders. Scott feels his jaw nearly hit the ground and he stares at Stiles, moving closer slowly, stretching out his hands towards him.

"Stiles—"

"I have never ever done something that I thought would put anyone in danger." Stiles tells Derek, his voice shaking. "Whether they were in your pack or not." His hands clench into fists at his sides. "And you know what Derek? I don't want you to trust me." But Scott can hear in his heartbeat the lie that that is. "And from now on, I don't care what you do. Fuck an antelope, jump off a fucking cliff, do whatever you fucking please. Just as long as it's as far away from me as you can possibly manage."

He turns to Scott, fury ticking in his jaw. "Let's go."

"We're not fucking done—" Derek snarls, reaching forward to grab at his jacket, but Stiles shakes him off with a snarl of his own.  
"Don't fucking touch me. And don't fucking come anywhere near me again."

Derek flinches backwards as though Stiles has dealt him another punch, but Stiles turns away before he can see it, marching towards Scott's car and jumping into the passenger seat.

Scott turns to glare at Derek. "He didn't put any of us in danger. It was Deaton's plan to get Jamie and Neil to meet again, and it was going perfectly fine until that fucking hunter _shot him_." He over enunciates the words, making sure to drill their full meaning into Derek's head. "Quit being a dick and blaming him for every single thing that goes wrong." Scott turns to go back to his car before a though occurs to him and he turns back towards Derek. "And you know what, Derek? I don't want to have an alliance with a hypocritical alpha who treats my pack like trash and then accuses them of not caring what happens to his."

With that, he turns swiftly on his heel and storms back towards his car without another word.

* * *

Stiles is quiet on the drive back, and his silence unnerves Scott, filling him with an intense desire to turn the car around and tear Derek a new one.

"Did I really almost get you guys killed?" Stiles finally breaks the silence, his gaze not leaving the flurry of dark trees passing by the car window.

Scott glances over at him for a moment before returning his eyes to the road with a shake of his head. "No, Derek was just being a dick."

Stiles snorts humorlessly, "Nothing new there then."

Silence falls over them again before soft sniffs break through it and Scott turns to stare at Stiles in disbelief. "Dude, are you crying?"

Stiles shakes his head vehemently, "No" but he sniffs more loudly this time and Scott feels his jaw drop further with disbelief. The last time he saw Stiles cry was when Lydia had run into Jackson's arms back in that abandoned warehouse, and the time before that was when Stiles' mom had—

He pulls the car over to the side of the road, putting in park before turning to face Stiles fully. "What's wrong?" He asks, "Is it your shoulder?"

Stiles shakes his head. "It's nothing, I'm fine."

"No, you're not, I can hear your heartbeat." Scott reminds him, bringing a hand across to rest on Stiles' shoulder tentatively. "What's wrong?"

Stiles huffs out a laugh, muttering something under his breath about "damn werewolves" before turning to look at Scott through his watery eyes.  
"Remember when you asked me about whether I wanted to be with Derek, and I told you that if he could get a complete personality transplant, than I'd be down because he was hot as fuck?"

Scott nods slowly, "Yeah."

Stiles huffs out another laugh and runs a hand through his hair. "Well, it turns out that I want to be with more than Derek's hot bod." Stiles closes his eyes and Scott watches him try and force down the rest of his tears. "Like, I just want to be with him, period."

Scott watches him, pity welling up in his chest as he takes in Stiles' heartbroken face.

"Stiles—"

"I just—" Stiles starts, before he cuts himself off, swallowing down the sob that tries to escape his lips, shaking his head. "I just—it's so stupid, and I don't want to get upset over it because it's _Derek_, and fuck knows him being an asshole is not exactly breaking news but I just—"

"Hey," Scott cuts in, pulling Stiles into a careful hug, taking extra care around his shoulder. "Hey, it's alright, just," and part of him marvels at the fact that he's the one saying this to someone else, the asthmatic kid who could never go anywhere without his inhaler, "just breathe, ok?"

Stiles laughs at that, and Scott wonders if the irony isn't lost on him either, before his laugh turns into sobs and Scott just sits there and holds him, at a complete loss for what to say.

* * *

"_I beat you!" He crows happily, knocking the other figure's king over with a grin._

"_This game is stupid." The figure bites back, crossing his arms over his chest in a huff.  
He glares at him, angrily, in a bit of huff himself. "It's not stupid." _

"_Yes it is." The figure insists and he rolls his eyes in response.  
"You're just upset because you keep losing." _

_The figure growls and reaches out to steal his King. "Who cares? It's a stupid game."_

"_Is not!" He yells back, reaching forward for his King, but the figure holds it just out of his reach. "Give it back!"_

_He stretches forwards further, before deciding it would be a good idea to stand on top of his stool and reach for it. He clambers to his feet, ignoring the figure's "Hey, wait!" before reaching forward again, his fingertips almost brushing it, before he loses his balance and topples off the stool towards the ground. All the air rushes out of his lungs and he waits for his body to hit the hardwood floor, when he feels arms wrap around his body and catch him. _

"_What were you thinking?" The figure snarls at him. "You could've hurt yourself."_

_He glares at him petulantly. "I want my King."_

_The figure lets out a long-suffering sigh before dropping the white king into his outstretched hand. "Here, promise you won't stand on the stool ever again."_

_He nods happily, twirling the king around in his hand. "Okay."_

_The figure mumbles something under its breath that he can't quite catch before lowering him down onto his feet. "Come on, I can hear the ice cream van coming around the corner, let's get some."  
He perks up significantly at that thought; ice cream is his favorite food this month, especially the chocolate cookie dough fudge swirl that the ice cream van that frequents their street sells. "Ok." He stretches his arms towards the figure. "Carry me!"_

_The figure turns back to look at him and he can practically feel its eyebrow rise. "You can walk."_

_He considers those words, keeping his arms still stretched upwards, before coming up with a sure fire response. "Carry me, please?"_

_The figure stares at him for a moment before letting out another long-suffering sigh and picking him back up. He snuggles back into its heat, enjoying the warmth surging through him and the pounding heartbeat echoing through its chest into his ear.  
"Stop wriggling so much." The figure snaps, tightening his grip on him and he settles into his shoulder, trying to keep still as they make their way out of the house. _

"_Scott doesn't like chess either." He tells it, and he feels the grip on him tighten for a fraction of a second before loosening once more.  
"Doesn't he?" The figure replies coolly as they walk down his driveway._

_He shakes his head, "No," before frowning slightly and raising his head to look at the figure. "Why don't you like him?"_

"_Because he's a stupid kid." The figure replies bluntly and he frowns worriedly._

"_He's five." He protests. "Like me. Do you think I'm a stupid kid?"_

"_No." The figure tells him. "You're an idiot, there's a difference."_

_He processes this for a moment, before glancing back up at the figure. "But you like me, right?"_

_The figure heaves another sigh as the ice cream truck arrives. "Yes, Stiles, of course I like you."_

_Stiles grins and burrows his head back on the figures shoulder. "I know."  
"If you know then why did you ask?" The figure counters, before turning to the ice cream truck. "One vanilla, and one chocolate cookie dough fudge swirl."_

_Stiles shrugs. "Just making sure."_

_The figure hand over the money and takes the ice cream cones, handing Stiles his and making his way back up into the house. Stiles licks his hungrily before another thought occurs to him and he glances back up at the figure. "And you don't play with me just because my mom pays you to, right?"  
The figure stares down at him, and Stiles can feel the indignant anger and confusion flowing off him in waves. "No—who told you that?" _

_Stiles stares back down at his ice cream cone, giving it another hungry lick. "Jackson did." He stares at his ice cream cone in annoyance as he remembers Jackson's words. "He says that you're just my babysitter, not my friend."_

_He turns to look at the figure earnestly. "You are my friend, aren't you Derek?"_

_And just like that, the hazy fog obstructing his features is lifted and he can see Derek's face clearly staring down at him softly. "Of course Stiles, now eat your ice cream before it melts."  
"Ok." Stiles replies happily, returning to his ice cream, enjoying sweet sugary taste unrolling on his tongue, and Derek's careful arms wrapped around him as they both sit on his porch and eat their ice cream. _

Stiles jumps awake, heart hammering heavily in chest.

What the fuck was that?


	6. Chapter 6

Hey everybody! New chapter! Thank you to everyone that has read and/or reviewed so far! ^^  
**Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf, that belongs to Jeff Davis  
Warnings: Mental Illness, Living with a family member afflicted with Mental Illness, Abuse, Bullying, Violence, Torture**

* * *

_Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,_  
_But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,_  
_How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,_  
_Whose action is no stronger than a flower?_  
_O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out_  
_Against the wreckful siege of battering days,_  
_When rocks impregnable are not so stout,_  
_Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?_  
_O fearful meditation! where, alack,_  
_Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?_  
_Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?_  
_Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?_  
_O, none, unless this miracle have might,_  
_That in black ink my love may still shine bright._

_Shakespeare, Sonnet LXV_

* * *

Stiles Stilinski, son of the greatest Sheriff to ever grace Beacon Hills is not hiding from a certain dickwad Alpha, no matter what the various voicemails from said Alpha say after Stiles declines to answer his calls. It's his phone and he can do whatever the fuck he likes with it. (Though he is getting a little tired of hearing that Frozen song, but he has to admit that it fits his feelings towards Derek more perfectly than ever.) And yeah, maybe he's been spending more time out of his house lately on the off chance that Derek will break in through his window again, but that doesn't mean he's hiding from him. He just…really doesn't want to see him right now, so he's taking the appropriate measures to make sure that doesn't happen. Which sounds a lot like hiding, but in practice is totally different from it.

Okay fuck it, he's hiding. What would you do if you realized that you had feelings for someone and then had said feelings shit all over by that someone and then found out that apparently you knew that someone when you were younger but somehow have absolutely no memory of it, all in the space of a few hours? Oh right, why would you or anyone else know? This kind of shit only happens to him.

Except for the whole feelings being shit on part, he wagers that he's not the sole recipient of that phenomenon.

His dad gives him the once over before he leaves for a few days after the whole 'feelings being shit on incident' for New York, to discuss the possibilities of a connection to the recent murders with the cult ones with the detectives that had worked them. It's almost like he can see right through him, to the battered heart that beats pitifully and morosely in his chest.

"I'll only be gone for a few days." His dad tells him, shifting his feet by the door reluctantly, and keeping his eyes on Stiles the whole time. "I made Parrish promise to check in on you every so often, make sure you're doing alright." He hesitates, glancing over Stiles again. "Course, if you need me to stay—"  
Stiles waves his off. "Dad, I'll be fine, go enjoy your murdery discussions in New York."

His Dad stares at him, chewing on his words thoughtfully before saying them. "You know, you've been out of the house a lot lately."

Stiles blinks. "Uh, it's summer? I have friends?" Friends is stretching it a bit, it's mostly just been Scott letting him throw lacrosse balls at him and pretending not to see him cry into his chocolate cookie dough fudge swirl. Though Isaac had shown up a few times too, he even let Stiles tackle him once or twice. And Lydia and Allison had both texted him separately offering to cut Derek's balls off for him, an offer which he'd reluctantly declined because he doesn't hate Derek that much yet. Also, figures that Scott couldn't keep a secret to save his life. (Well, except for the whole werewolf thing, and the whole Gerard thing—alright, let's just say that when it comes to keeping Stiles' secrets Scott is crap. Though it's more than likely Lydia probably cornered him in an alley and beat the truth out of him with her designer heels, and then told Allison, so he's not that mad at Scott. And Isaac probably flashed his puppy dog look and, well, who could resist that?)

His Dad just keeps looking at him, unmoved. "You've also been eating a lot of chocolate."

Stiles gives him his best WTF face, "Again, it's summer. I'm supposed to be eating junk food, that's like, the rules of teenagerism." He nods towards the front door. "You should go, you're gonna miss your flight."

"Yeah." His Dad nods reluctantly, taking another two steps towards the door before turning to face Stiles again, and Stiles has to shove down the groan that rises up. "You'd tell me if something, or someone, was bugging you, right?"

"Dad, look, I promise, nothing's wrong, alright?" Stiles tells him, coming forward to wraps his arms around him in a hug that pulls slightly on his injured shoulder before patting him on the back. "Now, go."

His Dad watches him for a moment before pulling him into another hug, squeezing almost painfully tight before he lets go. "Alright. Call me if there's an emergency."

"Will do." Stiles salutes, and his Dad shoots him a sharp look before making his way out of the house and into the squad car.

Stiles watches him go, waving until the squad car disappears out of sight, before heading upstairs to take a shower and change into clothes that smell a whole lot better that the ones currently hanging off his frame. He hopes the heat will wash away the mess of feelings battering against his rib cage, but no such luck, and he leaves the shower feeling only slightly less tense than he had been before.

He pulls on a pair of boxers and shifts around in his closet for a moment, but can't decide what to wear, and eventually just flops back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to swallow down both the images of Derek floating back into his mind and the lump that rises up in his throat with them.

He sits back up, glancing at his mirror from his position on the bed and wonders why he ever thought he'd have a chance with someone like Derek. Where Derek is all hard muscle, powerful and defined, he's lanky, gangly, muscled, but just barely at that. And, he thinks with a snort, he certainly does not look like the gods themselves sculpted him. More like extremely underpaid Cherubs that would rather have been anywhere but there.

A white and red bag by the bottom of the mirror catches his attention and he finds his eyes drawn to the bag of new clothes that Lydia dropped off before all this shit with Derek went down. He stares at it for a few moments, remembering how foreign the clothes had felt laying on his skin, how they had made him feel like he was a stranger in his own body, like he was somebody else; someone fascinating, attractive, alluring and in control.

He'd like to feel like somebody else right now.

* * *

He's staring at his reflection, having chosen a slightly tighter than normal, bright blue t-shirt, and a pair of dark blue skinny jeans, in the mirror when the doorbell rings. He hesitates for a moment before a glance outside his window reveals a squad car; his dad probably forgot something. And he doesn't know what to do with the disappointment and relief that rises up within him simultaneously, but shoves them both down harshly as he makes his way downstairs and opens the door, snippy retort about forgetful old men half formed on his tongue—

Only to die away as his eyes meet bright green ones, a small smirk playing on their owner's lips. "Hey." He glances up and down his outfit, quirking his eyebrows. "New clothes?"  
"Uh, my friend bought them for me." Stiles tells him and winces inwardly when he hears how sketchy he managed to make that sound.  
Parrish's eyebrows quirk again. "Really? Well, they're nice."

"Thanks." Stiles tells him, shoving down the pink flush rising to his cheeks as his chest goes all warm and fuzzy at the compliment. Now if only Derek—

Aaand, cutting that thought off, right now.

He remembers at the last moment that Parrish is still standing there, watching him with a small smirk on his face, "Oh, right, did my dad forget something?" He jerks his head back towards some unknown direction in his house. "If you tell me what it is, I can go—"  
"No, he didn't forget anything." Parrish tells him, that slight trace of amusement still lightly settled on his lips. "I was just coming to check up on you."

Stiles stares at him incredulously, before throwing his hands up in the air. "Unbelievable! I've been on my own for a total of, what, an hour? Just what does he think I'm capable of accomplishing in that _incredibly short_ time span?"  
"Stiles, Stiles," Parrish soothes, holding up his hands in mock defense. "Your Dad's just a little concerned, Beacon Hills isn't exactly the safest place in the world to live lately, and apparently this is the first time that he's left you on your own for a few days." Parrish shrugs. "You can't blame him for being worried."  
Stiles huffs out an exasperated groan because yes he most certainly can. He's faced werewolves, hunters, kanimas, lamiaes, wendigos, and ghosts. Three days on his own is hardly going to kill him.

Parrish watches him grumble incoherently words about overprotective dads and whether or not it'll be _his_ dad pulling the whole shotgun routine when he finally (finally) manages to get a date for a minute before speaking again. "Are you, uh, going somewhere today? Because if so, I can give you a ride on my way to the station."

Stiles glances back up at him, surprised. "Uh, yeah, the library, but I have the jeep so you don't—" Actually, Stiles thinks, breaking off mid sentence to entertain this idea fluttering through his mind. If he's trying to avoid Derek, leaving his jeep at home instead of parking it in plain sight in the library parking lot is probably the better option.

He turns back to Parrish. "Yeah, actually, that'd be great."

Parrish nods, looking down at his watch. "How much time do you need?"

Stiles thinks, before pointing back down the hall. "I just need to grab my phone, so like, two minutes."

"Two minutes." Parrish says, sternly, but with a twinkle of humor in his eyes. "I'll wait for you in the car."

* * *

Parrish hands him a coffee cup when he gets in the car and Stiles takes it, surprised.  
"You got me coffee?"  
Parrish shakes his head as he pulls out of the driveway. "No, tea. Your dad mentioned that you'd started drinking it lately and I was passing by this little place in town that does really good tea on my way back so," He shrugs, turning onto the main road and heading in the direction of the library. "I thought I'd get you some."

Stiles blinks, staring down at the cup in his hands. "Oh, thanks."

Parrish sends him a smile that's full of beautiful shining white teeth. "No problem."

See, why can't he have feelings for someone like that? Someone who gets him tea just because his Dad mentioned offhandedly that he's been drinking more of it lately? Someone who paid attention to him, and actually cared what happened to him, and who, for reasons unknown, was not wiped from his childhood memories.

"He also mentioned that you'd been acting a little off lately." Parrish says tactfully and ah, Stiles sees where they were going with this whole, butter Stiles up with extremely delicious tea thing.

"He did?" Stiles asks, carefully, before taking another sip of his tea because damn, that stuff is good.  
Parrish hums in agreement, "Yeah, he seems to think that you've had your heartbroken."

Stiles nearly spits out his tea. Which would be a terribly, horrible, unforgivable tragedy because _tea_. "What?"

"He says that you never spend any time in the house anymore, like you're scared someone's going to come knocking on the door, you have more chocolate bar wrappers in your garbage than a chocolatier, and whenever your phone plays that song from Frozen you act like it doesn't exist." Parrish tells him, glancing over at him curiously, humor still glimmering in his eyes. "Care to tell me your reason for committing these terrible crimes?"

Stiles rolls his eyes to try and cover the awkward shuffle he makes in his seat. "Please, if any of that was actually a crime, my Dad would have arrested me already."

Parrish huffs out a laugh, "Maybe," before a serious expression takes over his face and oh god Stiles does not like the way this conversation is heading. "Seriously, Stiles, is something wrong?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Nope, everything is fine. Dandy, hunky dory, nothing at all wrong here."

"Stiles," Parrish says, leveling him with his serious gaze, "be honest."

Stiles hesitates for a moment, glancing back at him, because really, that's the whole fucking problem here isn't it? Honesty is a rare commodity that has to be tendered carefully, considerately, in this world of werewolves, hunters, and various other creatures of the night. Not being honest with Derek but being honest with himself had landed him where he was now; without Derek's trust or care and saddled down by feelings that cried out desperately for it.

He shakes his head again. "There's nothing wrong." He insists, or rather, pleads with Parrish to believe.

But Parrish is too good of a cop to buy that, his mouth settling into a thin line as they pull into the library parking lot. Stiles turns to the door, moving to open it before they can pull to a full stop but Parrish locks the door with an audible click, leveling Stiles with a glare that tells him to sit his ass down and not move. Stiles settles back into his seat warily, watching Parrish as he pulls into a parking space and turns off the engine, like a wounded animal might watch his hunter stalking steadily closer.

"Stiles, I'd appreciate it if you didn't lie to me." Parrish tells him sternly, managing to infuse more authority into his voice than any twenty four year old has any right to and Stiles swallows nervously.

"When I picked you up the other week and took you to the animal clinic, you seemed kind of out of it," Parrish starts haltingly, turning his gaze on Stiles. "I need you to tell me honestly, were you high?"

Stiles feels his jaw hit the floor. "No! The hell—why would you—"  
"You called me 'good sir', asked just how fast my 'steel machine' could go, and spent the whole drive staring out the window like you'd never seen Beacon Hills before." Parrish cuts in bluntly.

Stiles stares back him, mentally kicking himself as he remembers how Jamie had acted on the drive to the Vet's. His strange behavior hadn't been the most prevalent thing on his mind, he was more concerned about what Derek was going to say when—

And again, cutting that thought right off because fuck Derek, and he has more important things to do right now, like coming up with a lie that sounds plausible enough to convince Parrish that he wasn't sniffing any of the good stuff. He runs a hand through his hair and lets his head hit the back of the seat when a few minutes later he comes up with a big, fat, nothing.

"You know, Stiles, I can't help but think the two are connected." Parrish tells him, keeping the firm edge to his voice while still allowing some concern to slip in. "If someone is using your feelings for them to—"  
"To what? Trick me into using drugs?" Stiles snaps, before shaking his head and letting out a huff of humorless laughter. "That's not what's happening here."

"Then tell me what is." Parrish replies evenly, though he lets some genuine worry and concern show freely in his eyes. "Your Dad's worried about you, we both are."

Stiles hesitates, and wow, low blow, playing the dad card like that, but he can tell that Parrish is being sincere and his barrage of concern is wearing away at his walls, so he makes a compromise. He decides to tell a half truth, that way he's not technically lying, right?

"Look," He says, avoiding Parrish's gaze and staring out the window towards the library, "You're right, there was someone who I—who I figured out that I have feelings for, but," He shakes his head with a wry laugh, "they hates my guts so, that's definitely not happening any time soon."

He turns to looks as Parrish, letting the desperate honesty flood from his tone. "And yeah, that's why I've been kind of out of it lately, but I swear to you that I'm not taking, and never have taken, drugs. And h—they, aren't making me do anything, I promise."

Parrish watches him with an unreadable expression before nodding. "I believe you. But if I find out you were lying..."  
Stiles nods, swallowing hard. "Yeah, I get it."

Parish watches him for a moment more before unlocking the cruiser doors and Stiles feels a wave of relief rush through him. He turns towards the door again, only to pause for a moment, the words falling off his tongue before he has time to fully consider them. "Hey, Deputy Parrish?"

"Yes, Stiles?" Parrish's voice says softly behind him.

"What would you do if the person you lo—had feelings for, didn't feel the same way?"

Parrish is silent for a moment and Stiles' whole body tenses, and he worries that he's managed to fuck things up, when Parrish huffs out a small laugh. "Well, I suppose I'd probably be doing the same thing you're doing, eat a lot of chocolate, try to avoid them as much as I can, and wait for the feelings to pass."

Stiles absorbs the words for a moment, a lump rising up in his throat, before giving a quick nod and opening up the cruiser door. "Thanks for the ride."

"Stiles." Parrish calls out, grabbing his shoulder before he can get out of the car, and causing Stiles to turn and face him. He sends him a warm, gentle smile. "For the record, whoever it is doesn't know what they're missing."

Stiles stares at him, shocked, before returning the smile with a grateful one of his own. "Thanks."

Parrish pats him gently on the arm before returning his hand to the steering wheel. "If you want I can come pick you up after my shift."

Stiles shakes his head as he gets out of the cruiser. "Thanks, but it's ok, I can walk."

Parrish nods. "Alright, text me when you get home. And I'll be coming back around dinner time to make sure that you're actually putting real food in your body."

Stiles snorts, "I swear, you're worse than my Dad." He shuts the door on Parrish's answering laugh, sending him a little wave through the cruiser window before making his way towards the library's front doors. Once there, he turns and watches Parrish pull out of the parking lot before taking a deep breath and heading inside.

* * *

So here's this thing, he didn't just decide to go to the library on some sudden desire to see how many Ghostbuster comics he could read in a day, or to get away from Derek.

He takes out his phone, switching it to vibrate and looking down at the text he'd gotten the night before. He'd tried to Google the number, hoping against hope that they'd fucked up and put their number on their some social media profile or something, and when that hadn't worked then he'd tried the yellow pages book under the kitchen sink, but hadn't been able to find anything on it. The text is short and sweet, and practically screeches suspicious but then again, curiosity had always been his hamartia.

_I've left something for you in the Town Records room. Thought it might give you some of the answers you've been looking for. Don't worry; you'll know it when you see it._

He makes his way past the librarian and down the stairs that lead to the Town Record's room, his breath catching uncomfortably in his throat, as he carefully descends. His eyes flick every which way for any possible sign of danger as he gingerly enters that grimy room, the familiar smell of mildew and dust assaulting his nose. He then winds his way carefully through the maze of boxes and iron shelves until he comes to the one he's looking for. And sure enough, a few aisles down is a box labeled, '_Stiles',_ in big black sharpie.

He hesitates for a moment, eyeing it warily, before tentatively picking it up, wincing at the slightest movement, afraid that it'll suddenly explode in his arms. Not even daring to breathe too loudly, he makes his way out of the town records' room and into his usual hideaway. He'd meant to get a new one after the whole 'Creep-town-Peter' thing, but it was close to the Town Record room door, and he could only hold down his impatience for so long.

He sits down, setting the box on the table in front of him, growing that much more bold with every second that the thing doesn't explode in his face. And pulls off the lid in a rush of movement, flinching backwards and waiting for it to ignite. But when the only sound that meets his ear is the faint clicks coming from the librarian's keyboard, he finally throws caution to the wind and reaches into the box, pulling out file after file; until he has three files stacked next to him.

He opens the first folder, and feels his hands clench at his side as he stares at the two pictures staring back at him. It's a picture of his mother, cut out from her old yearbook, he recognizes the picture from the one they have at home. And taped beside it is a picture of a girl who looks about the same age as his mother. She's beautiful, with dark brown hair, and her posture commands a sort of regal authority that makes her seem like she should be sitting on a throne, not in front of a camera. Unfortunately, her eyes are closed, so he can't see them properly, but something about her makes his chest tighten painfully and he scans his eyes down to the bottom of the page, where a little note has been attached. Two arrows point towards the two photos, names scribbled along the side; one reads "The future Mrs. Claudia Stilinski" while the other reads "The future Mrs. Talia Hale."

He feels his eyebrows fly up in surprise at the name; maybe she's a relative of Derek's, one of his aunts or something?

And underneath, scrawled in that incessant bright red marker that had marked up the other files is: '_Two queen bees, two best friends, sitting on top of a kingdom of secrets that aren't theirs to tell. Someone was bound to crack eventually, and burn the whole kingdom down_.'

Stiles swallows down hard, something roiling in his gut as the images of that burnt out shell of a home springs to his mind, and reaches for the next file.

This one contains a bunch of newspaper clippings, with titles ranging from '_Girls save Bakery from Bankruptcy'_, to _'Pregnant Mother Talia Hale starts help group for other mothers in the community.' _All of which contain several pictures of his mother either standing beside or with her arm around Talia, smiling brightly at the camera. While Talia always manages to either have her eyes closed or be looking away from the camera.

He looks through them all, scanning the pictures for the slightest detail, watching as they both steadily grow older. He sees Talia's belly go from swollen to flat several times, and sees a young girl snuggled up in her mother's arms, and he swallows down the lump that rises up in his throat at the reminder of what Derek lost, and how it felt when his mother's arms were wrapped around him. And in the next one, he sees a familiar looking, dark haired boy, pouting at the camera with his eyes firmly shut, and the realization hits him upside the head with all the force of a pissed off werewolf.

Derek's mother and his were _friends_? Best friends, according to the note, and he had no fucking idea? You'd have thought that at least his Dad would have said _something_ to him when Derek was on the run. Would've made sure that he really wasn't hiding Mr. fugitive in his room, or had been less surprised when Stiles admitted to knowing Derek a little better than he'd originally let on.

He reaches quickly for the next couple of articles, watching the wedding ring appear on his mother's finger, and watches her own belly swell, and then go flat as she holds him in her arms, smiling softly as he laughed back happily. He brushes a hand across his eyes quickly to wipe away the rogue tears forming there, the empty hole in his chest aching at the reminder of what it had lost. He reaches for the next file and feels his eyes widen as his jaw falls open in shock because it contains a fuckton of photos.

A photo of a younger him falling asleep on a younger Derek, a photo of him giggling at Laura as she tickles him, a photo of him chowing down on cookies, crumbs covering his mouth, as he looks up at the camera with a guilty expression and Talia Hale smiles softly in the background. And chills runs down his pain as he finds a photo of him sitting on a younger Peter's lap reading a book in the very same seat that he's in now. There are photos of him and Derek playing outside, playing chess, walking through the woods together, and a few of them falling asleep snuggled up to each other. And one where Derek realized that someone was taking pictures of them and shot whoever it was a dark glare, causing a glare in the lens that blocked out his eyes, while Stiles clutched onto his hand with his pudgy toddler one. There are photos ranging from when he was first born, with Derek leaning over his crib interestedly, up to when he was five, sitting on the front porch inhaling his ice cream with Derek beside him.

These photos definitely aren't something that was meant for the public domain; they're personal, private, like a collection of home videos. So how the hell did whoever sent that text get their hands on them? And how the fuck has he never seen them before?

He reaches his hand back inside the box, his hands scrabbling desperately for something more, perhaps another note that his missed, when his fingertips brush against cool metal. He grabs it and pulls it out of the box, heart thundering loudly in his ears in equal parts trepidation and anticipation.

Dangling on a brown chord is a little silver triskele, like the one that Derek has tattooed on his back. He brushes his fingers against it, as a faint memory begins to stir in the back of his mind—

"_Going somewhere Stilinski?"  
_

_The hard kick to the back of his legs sends him flying, forcing him to land on the ground with a hard thump and scrape his knees and hands in the process. _

_Stiles fights back tears of pain as he scrambles back to his feet, turning just as Jackson and his cronies manage to surround him. "Leave me alone, Jackson."  
_

"_Leave me alone, Jackson." Jackson mocks in a high-pitched voice and the two boys behind him laugh at the same time as Stiles tries to sink into the ground and will himself to be magically transported anywhere but here._

"_Hey, what's that?" Jackson says, pulling Stiles' attention back to him as he marches forward and yanks Stiles forward by the brown chord around his neck, sneering down at the silver triskele dangling between his fingertips. "A necklace? You're such a girl, Stilinski."_

"_Am not!" Stiles snaps back, bringing his hand up to try and shove Jackson's grip off on his necklace off. "Let go!"_

_Jackson tightens his grip and yanks Stiles forward a few more inches. "Did McCall give you this necklace, you big baby? Huh? Are you his girlfriend?"_

"_I'm not a girl!" Stiles shouts back, his cheeks going red, and he shoves Jackson; who shoves right back, and Stiles would have been thrown back against the ground if it hadn't been for Jackson's grip on the necklace. Jackson brings his fist up and Stiles screws his eyes shut, waiting for his fist to connect, and hunches into himself. _

"_Let go of him."_

_Jackson and his cronies turn to look in the direction of the voice while Stiles stiffens, opening his eyes but keeping them fixed on Jackson's expensive shoes. Relief mixed with apprehension churning through his body and settling low and heavy in his stomach. _

_Derek stares down Jackson and his buddies, somehow managing to emanate an aura of pure murder that has them scrambling away from Stiles and running down the street. _

_Stiles pushes himself off the ground, dusting off his pants, as he hears Derek walk over to him. "Thank-you." He tells him politely, still not meeting his eyes, and turns to go, moving as fast as legs will carry him._

_But Derek still catches him, reaching out and snagging his arm. "Stiles, wait."_

_Stiles tugs at Derek's grip, but it doesn't do much good, and Derek just tightens it anyway. _

_"I said, wait." He gives a tug of his own that forces Stiles to turn back to him, though Stiles still manages to avoid his eyes. "Why are you walking home on your own?"_

_Stiles shrugs. "Mom forgot to pick me up."_

"_She forgot?" Stiles can't see his face, but Derek sounds really confused.  
_

_Stiles nods. "She forgets sometimes, it's no big deal." He shuffles his feet uncomfortably, waiting for Derek to let go of his arm._

"_Why didn't you come get me?" Derek asks, and yeah, Stiles probably should have seen that coming. His mom and Derek's had worked out a plan just in case something like this happened; he was supposed to go meet Derek at the nearest bus stop and walk home with him, but he couldn't do that now because—  
_

_He gives another shrug, staring at his feet. "I can walk home on my own, besides, Jackson's mom doesn't come pick him up." _

"_Jackson walks home with his friends, you don't." Derek points out, and Stiles bristles slightly at that because hey, it's not his fault that Scott lives in the opposite direction from him, or that his mom doesn't have the time to drop him off too before she heads back to work. _

_After a few minutes of Stiles' silence Derek sighs and lets go of his arm. "C'mon, I'll walk you home—"  
_

"_Stiles!"  
_

_Stiles turns to see his mother fuming towards them and shrinks back instinctively into Derek. Her hair is a mess, half up, half down, and wrinkles adorn her clothes like precious jewels adorn a Queen's. Her eyes are clouded, that glimmer of happiness and humor that normally shines in them hidden from view; in fact her entire expression represents that of a fierce tempest, and Stiles feels like the unfortunate boat that got caught up in its fury. _

"_I'm sorry—" He tries as she gets nearer, only to be cut off as she yanks him behind her, focusing her fury on Derek instead. _

"_Stay away from my son." She hisses, enough venom in her voice to kill a thousand Dereks.  
_

_Stiles peers around his mother's side as much as her titanium grip will allow, glancing at Derek's face for the first time, watching when he steps back as shock takes over his features. "Mrs. Stilinski—"_

"_I'm only asking once." She replies evenly, and something in her tone scares Stiles and he urges Derek with his eyes to get out of here as fast as he can. Derek flicks his eyes over to his and they meet for a total of five seconds before his mother is blocking him from view. _

_She bends down and snaps the necklace off his neck, ignoring the small cry of pain the action draws from Stiles' lips, and throws it at Derek, who barely manages to close his mouth long enough to catch it.  
_

"_Stay away." She shouts, turning swiftly on her heel and dragging Stiles along behind her, who turns briefly to try and get a glimpse of Derek; before his mother doubles her pace and he stumbles, forcing him to turn back around and practically run to keep up with her.  
_

"_What did I tell you?" She demands as they make their way back to the house._

_Stiles avoids looking her in the eyes. "Not to see Derek again."_

"_That's right." His mother tells him, tugging him up the steps to their porch. "Now, go up to your room and don't come out until you're sorry."_

"_I'm sorry!" Stiles insists, and he is. Deep, heavy guilt is pulling viciously at his tiny six year old heart and he would do anything to make it go away; to make his mother happy again. _

_His mother pauses as she opens the door, turning down to look at him, and the tempest vanishes from her face; replaced by fatigue. She crouches down beside him, taking his face in her hands and sighing heavily. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, baby boy."_

"_I didn't mean to." Stiles tells her, his breath catching as tears start to gather in his eyes. "Why are you so mad at me?"_

"_I'm not mad baby, I just—" She gives another sigh, leaning her forehead to rest against his. "I'm just worried."_

"_Why?" Stiles asks, worry beginning to grow in his chest as well, "Is something wrong with Daddy?" _

"_No." She pulls back from him, a sad smile pulling at the corners of her lips as she brushes her thumbs against his cheek, murmuring almost to herself: "Baby boy, my poor baby boy, you always care too much about others." Her expression shifts slightly as something unreadable slips into her eyes at her next words. "That's going to be your downfall."_

_Stiles scrunches up his face in confusion, though worry still tinges his tone. "What does 'downfall' mean? It sounds bad, is it bad?"_

_His mother hesitates before shaking her head. "It's nothing, honey, don't worry about it."_

_She pulls him into a hug and he burrows into her warm arms, enjoying the way they tighten around him, and hold him close. "Promise me, promise me that you'll always put yourself first, alright?"_

_Stiles nods, "I promise." _

_Anything to make his mother happy._

"Stiles?"

Stiles jolts out of the memory to face Danny, staring at him with concern painfully evident on his face. "You alright?"

Stiles runs a hand over his face, immensely relieved when he finds no tears there, and begins to shove all the photos and newspaper clippings back into the box, though he keeps the necklace clutched tightly in his hands. He can come back for the photos later. "Yeah, uh, sorry, I guess I just zoned out."

He flashes him a wide grin as he stands up with the box, and hopes it covers the turmoil rocketing through him. "What's going on?"

Danny shrugs, "Not much," and moves aside so Stiles can step out of the aisle but shifts on his feet uncomfortably for a few seconds afterwards.  
"I want to talk to you about something."

Stiles shoots him a quizzical look. "What's up?"  
Danny runs a hand through his hair awkwardly. "Yesterday I went to the Jungle, and the bouncer told me something that I think you're gonna want to hear."

Stiles feels trepidation build in his gut, but he manages to swallow that down. "What—look can you hang on for a sec?" he wiggles the box in his hands slightly, "I just have to take this back down to the Town Record's room, so—"  
"I'll come with you." Danny tells him and Stiles looks at him in surprise because he's never met someone who would willingly go into that mold paradise when they didn't need to. Which shows just how terrible and need-to-know whatever Danny's planning on telling him is. "Uh, ok."

The two of them descend the stairs towards where bad papers go to rot for all eternity, Stiles' mind frantically running through what he had learned and trying to piece it together. But every time he slides one piece into place, a thousand more missing pieces reveal themselves.

He struggles not to sigh as he puts the box away, turning back to face Danny, who is leaning against the wall looking like he's trying not to breathe too deeply, the corner of his mouth turned down in disgust. "So what happened? Have I been barred? Was my handsomeness too much for their poor patrons to handle?"

Danny rolls his eyes slightly, but that uncomfortable aura still radiates off of him. "Evan, the bouncer, told me that your older brother showed up at the club the day after we did and 'politely requested' that they never let you in again."

Stiles stares at him, his face crumpled into confusion as his mind works furiously to solve this one. "But...I don't have an older brother."

"Well, apparently you do," Danny tells him, "and I gotta say, he looks a hell of a lot like your cousin." When Stiles just blinks at him, Danny lets out an impatient huff. "_Miguel_?"

Stiles could not be more surprised if Danny had torn off his t-shirt to reveal a flamenco dress and danced the can-can in high heels.

"You—you saw Der—Miguel?" Stiles covers quickly, and badly, by the extremely judgy eyebrow that Danny sends his way.

"Yeah, he was waiting inside when I got in. He basically told me to fuck off and never take you there again and then he stole my phone and deleted all my contacts, including yours." Danny sounds a hell of a lot more pissed about the second half of the sentence than he does the first. "It took _hours_ for me to override the code and get them all back."

Stiles would wince in sympathy, but he's too busy using his mouth as a flycatcher, and staring at Danny incredulously. "That—that's not—"  
"Are you still going to try and tell me he's your cousin?" Danny says, arching an eyebrow at him, though that undercurrent of frustration lingers beneath his words.

"He—he—" Stiles tries.

"Did you just go there to make him jealous?" Danny asks, shaking his head. "Cause if so, well done, mission accomplished."

"He wasn't jealous—" Stiles manages to get out and Danny raises his hand in mock defense. "Hey, I'm not judging, I've done that a few times myself; and my exes sure as hell have." Danny sounds slightly more than a little bitter about that.

"We're not together!" Stiles protests.

"But you want to be." Danny counters.

Stiles stares at him, fumbling for the right words. "Well—yeah, maybe—but—" He swallows and breaks his gaze away from Danny. "He doesn't like me like that."

"Stiles—" And Danny's exasperated tone tells him exactly where that sentence is heading.

"No, you don't understand, he—" Stiles breaks off, shaking his head. "He just thinks that I spend too much time dicking around, so he's—he was probably just trying to make sure that I spend more time on—something else."

Danny snorts. "Yeah, his dick."

Stiles nearly coughs up a lung. "What?"  
"Stiles, c'mon, he—" Danny cuts himself off with a shake of his own head. "You know what, let me prove it to you."  
"And...how _exactly_ are you going to do that?" Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow.

Danny walks over to him, stopping just a few inches away from him and quirking his eyebrow. "By making out with you."  
Stiles manages to stop his jaw from hitting the ground through pure willpower. "Uh, ok, not that I have any objections to that," what, the dude's hot, "but, um, what will that prove what exactly?"

Danny shrugs. "Well he won't have a good reason to lose his shit over it unless he has feelings for you, so when he loses his shit over it and tries to kill me, you'll know why."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "He's won't try to kill you."

"You weren't there when he deleted my contacts." Danny tells him, maneuvering him against the wall. "There were some definite 'I already dug the gave' vibes coming off of him."

He huffs out a laugh and Danny leans closer to him, brushing his nose against Stiles'.  
"You do realize the chances that we're going to get some crippling lung disease from breathing in the mold in this room go up by at least 50% for every second we spend in here?" Stiles snarks, and sees Danny roll his eyes.

"You need to work on your dirty talk."

Stiles shrugs, enjoying the anticipation and heat filtering into his abdomen; he's seventeen alright? Give him a break. And despite what Danny says it's not like Derek's going to return his feelings any time soon. "It's the truth."

"Then we'll have to be quick." Danny breathes back, and pushes his lips against Stiles'.

He's thought, vaguely, about kissing Danny before, because there's no denying that the dude is attractive. The pressure against his lips his soft, warm, and before his little revelation he might have enjoyed it a hell of a lot more. It feels good, he imagines that kissing always does, but there's something missing. Kissing Danny doesn't help fill the empty hole in his chest that he's carved out for Derek's feelings. Instead, he finds himself comparing all of Danny's movements to how he images Derek's would be.

He pulls back from Danny, breathing slightly labored, and raises his eyebrow. "So, I see you're still alive."

Danny rolls his eyes. "I won't be when he smells me all over you."

Stiles casts him an odd look. "Why would he smell you on me?"

Danny raises his eyebrow at him, and speaks his next words slowly, making sure to enunciate clearly. "Because he's a werewolf."

Pure willpower can't stop Stiles' jaw from hitting the floor this time. "What?! That's not—how did you—"

"Jackson told me everything before he left." Danny tells him, a smirk playing across his lips at the sight of Stiles' minor heart attack, and shrugs. "To be honest, I was just glad he wasn't doing steroids at first, so it took a while for it to sink in. Thanks for letting me know by the way." He waves Stiles off before he can protest that they were trying to make sure that nobody else died, or ended up in the psych ward. "It's fine, I'd much rather pass Econ than be out fighting for my life every night."

Stiles stares at him. "You're taking the whole, werewolves exist thing, really well. Like, way better than the rest of us did."

Danny shrugs. "Dude, it's Beacon Hills. Hell doesn't even begin to cover it."

Stiles lets that sink in before nodding because, true, oh so very fucking true.

Danny scans him up and down. "How good are their senses? Like will Derek—sorry _Miguel_—be able to tell that I kissed you?"

"How did you—" Stiles shakes his head, Jackson probably told him that too. "Never mind. Yeah, he should be able to, but like I said, he won't give a fuck."

Danny hums slightly in agreement. "You're right."

He leans forward again, drawing Stiles into another kiss, the force of it causing another flare of warmth in his lower abdomen. And Stiles gives into the feeling once again, kissing back until Danny breaks away and lowers his mouth to the crook of Stiles' neck; doing something that makes Stiles' knees go weak, and forces him to swallow down a groan.

Danny removes his mouth from Stiles, the heat withdrawing slightly with him as he steps back with a smirk on his face. Stiles places his hand over the spot, feeling the cool air brush over it just before and send shivers down his spine. "Now he will."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Yeah, _Miguel's _definitely going to go apeshit over a hickey.

"Trust me, he will." Danny tells him, a smirk crawling across his face. "Don't worry, you can thank me later."

Stiles rolls his eyes again. "Yeah, right." He cocks his head to the side and gives Danny a curious look. "What did you get out of all that?"  
"You mean besides the chance to fuck with the guy that fucked with my phone?" Danny asks, arching his eyebrow before shrugging. "I got to make out with an attractive guy in a—disgusting, moldy, basement." He shudders. "Let's get out here."

He starts towards the stairs and Stiles stumbles after him, his mind still tripping over the first part of Danny's sentence. "You think I'm attractive?"

Danny shoots him a look. "I don't _think_ you're attractive, Stilinski, you _are_ attractive. Now let's go, I can feel portions of my lungs withering."  
Stiles lets that sink in, a huge grin spreading across his face as his self confidence goes up by over 9000, before running up the stairs to catch up with Danny as a thought occurs to him. "Hey wait—"  
"Not until we're somewhere with clean air." Danny calls back, running up the last few steps and opening the door to the rest of the library, taking in a deep breath as Stiles rushes up the last few steps and nearly falls out of the door himself.

"I was wondering if you could do something for me." Stiles tells, him, accidently letting the door slam behind him and wincing at the lethal glare the librarian sends their way.

Danny gives him an exasperated look and sighs. "What is it?"

Stiles pulls out his phone, opening up the text message, and hands it to Danny. "I need you to trace that text, and tell me where it came from."

Danny stares down at the phone before giving Stiles a look. "You know, you're kind of breaking the stereotypical Sheriff's son image by encouraging crime all the time."

Stiles shrugs. "I never liked stereotypes anyway."  
Danny shakes his head. "Dare I ask why you want this text traced?"

"It's probably best that you don't." Stiles tells him, he doesn't want to involve Danny in this more than he has to.  
Danny nods. "Fair enough." He hands the phone back. "I'll have it done by tonight, I'll text you the info then."

* * *

Stiles spends a few more hours at the library with Danny, filling in the gaps that Jackson had left when he told Danny everything, and fiddling with the silver triskele in his pocket the whole time, continuing to do as he makes his way home. There's an indescribable itch bubbling under his skin, a desire to put it on, held off only because the last time he put on a necklace he found at the library, he ended up possessed and shot.

He rubs one hand against his injured shoulder absentmindedly, while the other keeps its death grip on the necklace. Scott's mom hadn't been happy when they'd stumbled into her house, Stiles still clutching his injured shoulder, and by the time she'd cleaned the wound and bandaged it up Stiles was worried that his Dad was going to get a call. But when he asked her about it, she had sighed and promised she wouldn't, though Stiles had never seen her lips go quite that thin before. And the worry shinning in her eyes just slapped on another layer of guilt to the one he was currently carrying. One of these days, he was going to collapse under its weight.

He turns onto his street, mind leaving Melissa and turning once again to what he had found at the library, and what he had remembered. That look in his mother's eyes was familiar; it was the one that had started to sink in when the sickness had started to sink in. He recalls vague snatches of memories from that time, when the hallucinations and the paranoia and the insomnia had started. But he's tried to block them out too many times to be able see them clearly anymore. Maybe she found out what Derek and his family really liked to do on full moons and freaked out; the paranoia taking over and making sure that she never even considered letting them explain.

It sounded plausible, but the only way to be really sure that it was correct would be to ask Derek. Assuming that he hadn't mysteriously forgotten about their childhood together either, but Stiles wasn't holding his breath on that one. Like, c'mon, what are the chances that Derek knew that he knew Stiles when they were younger and never mentioned it once? Practically non-existent. Which means that talking to him would just be a total waste of time and effort.

And no, he is not coming up with excuses not to talk to Derek because he doesn't want to see him, thank you very fucking much. He's just being logical. The fact that he doesn't want to see Derek just happens to coincide with that purely logical decision.

Which is why of course, as he gets closer to his house, he sees the Camaro lying in wait in his drive. While Derek stands on his porch like the stubborn, immovable wall of muscle that he is, scowling down at Stiles like he's the one loitering outside someone else's house. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"What part of 'don't fucking come anywhere near me again' is so difficult for you to grasp?" Stiles inquires, making his way up the driveway and attempting to swerve past Derek, only for him to predictably reach out and catch his arm.  
"Where were you?" Derek bites out and Stiles shoots him a glare.  
"Uh, living my life? Which, by the way, is no longer, and actually never was, any of your business."

Derek opens his mouth like he wants to say something, before snapping it shut, and swallowing down whatever short retort rose up to the tip of his tongue. Instead, he growls out, "We need to talk."

"I'm done talking to you about, well, pretty much fucking everything." Stiles tells him. "And I don't have time for this. Now take your car and get off my driveway."

"Stiles—" Derek starts, but Stiles cuts him off, and god, does that feel good.

"I have someone coming over later, and I have to get ready." Stiles snaps, which is not technically a lie because Parrish is coming over later, "So get lost."

Derek stares at him for a moment, shock and something weirdly close to hurt tingeing his features, though that is quickly masked by anger.  
"But-your Dad's out of town."

Stiles raises his eyebrow at him. "Um, do I wanna know how you know that? Actually, you know what, I don't, because, again, it's none of your business Derek—" Stiles retorts, only to be cut off as Derek slams him against the front door, slight pain flaring up his back. "The hell is your problem?!"

"I said: we need to talk." Derek growls out. "And I'm not leaving until we do."

"Well too fucking bad, because I have nothing to say to you." Stiles snaps back. "So get lost."

"So you can get ready for your fuck buddy to come over?" Derek spits and it takes all the self-control Stiles has not to choke on his tongue. "What?"

"I can smell him on you." Derek's grip tightens on his shoulders and Stiles feels the tiniest bit of hope flutter in his chest as he struggles to keep the frustration on his face and his tone as acrid as he can. "So what? Why do you care?"

Derek's jaw clenches. "I _care_ because while the rest of us are trying to figure out who the hell these sorcerers are, you think you can just fuck around—"

His heart drops with a sickening thud as disappointment and hurt floods his system. He called it. He so fucking called it. Danny was so wrong; Derek didn't give a single fuck about him.

"Who are you exactly to tell me I can't?" Stiles bites back, glaring at Derek and, spurred on by anger, spitefulness and just a general desire to fuck with Derek, making sure to not-so-subtly tug his collar to the side to reveal the bite mark Danny gave him. "Like I keep telling you, it's none of your business what or who I do." He feels sweet vengeance flow through his veins when Derek's eyes lock onto his neck and his whole body stiffens. "I could fuck the whole neighborhood and you wouldn't be able to do a thing about it."

"Shut up!" Derek very nearly roars, shoving Stiles harder against the door as his eyes flaring bright red, his claws and teeth lengthening slightly. Stiles struggles not to shrink backwards into the door as he rolls his eyes at the growl that enters the air around them. "What, you gonna pull the big bad wolf routine to try and scare me into being celibate?"

"How noisy."

The voice drags Stiles and Derek's attention away from each other and towards the two twins standing directly behind Derek's back. And if that doesn't set a thousand warning alarms blaring in his head then his dad is the lead singer of the Sheriff's Office choir. Because whatever these two creep town twins are, they just managed to sneak up on a fully-fledged Alpha werewolf.

So basically, he and Derek are fucked.

Derek moves from shoving him against the door to growling menacingly at the twins, an arm out to make sure that Stiles stays behind him. The twins stare at him with pure, unabated, fascination and awe covering their features.

"You should take a picture, it'll last longer." Stiles manages to get out, struggling not to flinch under the twin stares of contempt that the comment earns him. However, it earns the twins another growl from Derek as well, though again, they seem more enraptured than frightened by him. "What are you?"

The two girls look at each other in perfect sync, each acting as the other's reflection, before turning back to look at Stiles and Derek, and something not unlike foreboding tugs at Stiles' gut. A feeling that is justified when a second later one of the girls pulls a vial of some kind out of her pocket, and faster than Stiles can blink, throws the contents, a fine, pale lavender powder, at the two of them.

"Don't breathe!" Stiles shouts at Derek, coughing slightly, as he struggles to cover his mouth in time. But not a second later, the world begins to blur around the edges, spinning wildly out of control, and Stiles feels himself falling towards the ground; darkness rising up to rapidly overcome his vision and tear him away from the world.

"_Stiles!"_

* * *

"_Claudia, please, just talk to me, sweetheart, what's wrong—"  
_

_A crash of glass sounds from below and Stiles flinches from where he's huddled on his bed, a pillow stuffed over his head to try and block out the noise as he clutches his stuffed wolf that Derek's mom had given him when he was a baby.  
"Don't you see?" His own mom shrieks, and he curls into himself to try and escape the sound echoing through his eardrums. "I couldn't before, but now I can, finally, what a monster he is." _

_His hand wanders to clutch at the empty space where his necklace used to hang, a birthday present from Derek when he turned four and he misses him, misses him so much that it makes his chest ache. His mom still won't let him see him, and when he asks she—gets upset. _

"_Claudia, who are you—"_

"_It's his fault!" His mom screams as another crash resounding through the house. "He made me think that my baby could do something so—so awful. When, really, it was him all along. He betrayed my baby, and set them all aflame." Another chorus of tinkling, shattering glass accompanies her next words. "What's to stop him from setting my baby aflame? I'll tell you what, me."  
_

"_Claudia—"  
_

"_I'll kill him if he so much as breathes around him." His mom snarls and the ferocity in her voice makes terror grip Stiles as scared tears gather in his eyes. "Make sure he never lays a hand on his head—"  
_

"_Claudia, please, calm down, you'll wake up Stiles." His dad pleads. "Just-just take your medication and we'll head to bed, everything will look better in the morning—"  
"You're not listening!" His mom howls, "I'm telling you that they're going to burn and you are doing **nothing**—"  
_

"_That's because I don't know what you're talking about!" His dad shouts back and Stiles cowers into his bed sheets, muffling his sobs into his stuffed wolf. "You're not making any sense!"_

"_I have seen what is to come!" His mom hisses, that dark edge that makes the hairs on the back of Stiles' neck stand up entering her tone; though he's never heard her use it on his Dad before. "And all that will befall them, and my poor baby, is fire and death!" _

"_What?" His dad sounds as scared as Stiles' feels. _

_She scoffs. "I would not expect you to understand, you stupid, useless—"_

_A soft knock on Stiles' window draws his attention away from their conversation and he looks towards it to see Derek's face. He hesitates for only a fraction of a second before scrambling out of his bed towards the window. Derek motions to the black ash that lines his window and mimes sweeping it aside, but Stiles shakes his head, moving to open the window instead. His mother would know, just like she had when Stiles tried to clean it up this morning and she—got upset._

"_Hey," Derek says softly when Stiles finally gets the window open. "You doing ok?"_

_Stiles nods too quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine." He glances back to makes sure that no one's coming up the stairs before turning back to Derek. "What are you doing here? My mom'll kill you when she finds out." Stiles whispers urgently, and he means literally. _

"_I wanted to see how you were doing." Derek tells him and Stiles feels a happy little feeling flutter through his chest at the thought of Derek worrying about him. Another crash sounds from below and they both flinch slightly. "What's going on?"_

"_My mom and dad are fighting." Stiles tells him, shuffling his feet awkwardly. "Mom keeps refusing to take her pills."_

_Derek's face creases with confusion. "Pills? What for?"_

_Stiles shrugs. "Don't know. Dad says they're supposed to make her better, but she doesn't want to take them." He looks at Derek worriedly. "Does that—does that mean she doesn't want to get better?"_

_Derek hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. "Of course not, Stiles." But Stiles doesn't have to be a werewolf to see that Derek's just lying to try and make him feel better._

"_You're just saying that." He tells him sadly, flinching when yet another glass smashes against their kitchen floor. _

"_Stiles—" Derek starts, reaching towards him and forgetting about the line of ash. Blue light crackles in the air between them and Derek lets out a yelp of pain, drawing his hand to his chest as Stiles jumps backwards in surprise. But panic lights up both their eyes as footsteps begin to run up the stairs.  
_

"_Derek, go!" Stiles tells him quickly, shutting the window and scrambling back towards his bed, barely managing to make it back in before the door opens and his mom storms in; followed shortly after by his dad who catches her arm before she can make it to Stiles.  
_

"_Claudia, stop it, you're being ridiculous."_

"_Someone was in here." She insists, "I felt them—"  
_

"_No one is here!" His dad hisses viciously. "Now c'mon, you're going to wake him up."_

_His mom hesitates for a moment and Stiles struggles not to breathe too loudly as his heart thunders in his chest, but eventually relents and allows his dad to tug her out of the room and back downstairs. He hears the low murmur of voices and wipes the tears from his eyes as the 'pop' of a pill bottle opening resonates through the suddenly silent house._

_Lately he can't decide which is worse, the yelling, or the suffocating silence that follows. _

_He sniffles and snuggles back into his blankets; clutching his wolf to his chest and wishing with all that he has that it would all just go away._

* * *

Ice-cold water, cascading over him, shocks him from the dream as he jumps awake with a strangled yell. As he blinks water out of his eyes he hears familiar giggles scrape against his eardrums and looks up to see one of the twins holding a metal bucket and grinning (though it looks more like she's barring her teeth to him) at him viciously. "Wakey, Wakey."

He stares at him for moment, mouth moving uselessly as he struggles to orient himself again, tugging uselessly at his arms to find them tied to the wooden chair he's sitting in. His legs are also tied, and when he glances around whatever abandoned warehouse that they've managed to end up in this time he sees the other twin laying out some sinister sharp objects of death on a pristine white tablecloth.

He finds his attention caught by those for a good few minutes, inspecting all the various sharp points they contain, before moving his gaze towards the altar that they've set up on another pristine white tablecloth; smeared with that terrible shade of red that's usually only one thing: blood. But, hey, maybe he's wrong this time and it's just cranberry juice. Please, oh please God, let it be Cranberry juice.

The altar is also decorated with a familiar indigo flower that sends a red alert flaring through Stiles' brain. Wolf's Bane.

_Derek._

He jerks around in his chair, turning his head from side to side and looking for him desperately, only relaxing slightly when his eyes finally find him across the room; tied up as well, still unconscious, but not dead. Because Derek can't be dead, he can't, and besides, Stiles still can see his chest rising up and down.

But if he's not awake, that means his body still hasn't eradicated the dust from his system yet, which can't be a good sign. At the very least, it means whatever they hit him was still hindering his healing ability, at the very worst, it means that Derek might be—

"I said, look at me!" The blow knocks his face to the side and away from Derek, and he turns to glare at the twin in front of him, who smirks back at him. "Good."

Stiles swallows, his throat feels dry and his voice cracks slightly around the edges when he speaks. "What are you going to do with us?"

"Not you, him." The twin tells him, nodding towards Derek and Stiles feels his heart leap into his throat. "We need him to bring back our Master."

"Master?" Stiles asks, confused.  
The twin nods sagely, and for the first time Stiles notes the mad gleam in her eyes.

"Our Master, the Dark Lord Thanos."

"Like the Marvel character? Stiles snarks and gets another blow across the face from his trouble. And wow that stung like a bitch.

"Don't insult our Master." She tells him sharply, "Or we may rethink our decision to let you live." Her lips curve into a cruel smirk. "Instead of just offering you up to him when he finally walks on this earthly plain once more."

"What terrible horror movie did you steal that dialogue from?" Stiles asks her, and receives yet another blow. Fuck, judging by the stinging pain in his cheek and the wetness slipping down it, her ring caught his cheek this time.  
"Be silent," She hisses as him, flicking a small switchblade out of her pocket and pointing it threateningly at his neck. "The spell calls for the blood and screams of the one who runs with wolves." She presses the cool, flat part of the blade against his cheek, and he feels his chest grow tight, his breathing hindered as panic seeps in. "But that doesn't mean I can't make you scream as well."

_The one who runs with wolves, _the words play on repeat over and over in Stiles' head as the twin presses the flat part of the knife hard into his flesh before drawing back, twirling it in her hand as she turns away from him and walks towards her sister. But it's only when they both turn to Derek that he stops fighting so viciously against their meaning, and allows it to sink in.

_A werewolf._

They advance towards Derek, who's still knocked out cold from whatever the fuck was in that dust and Stiles feels the scream building in his throat as fear sinks its icy cold talons into his heart.

_Oh fuck no._

"Wait!" He struggles not to scream, drawing their attention back to him.

He swallows heavily to get rid of the chalky dryness in his mouth, nearly tripping over his words in his desperation to get them out fast enough. "He's not the one you want."  
"What do you know about the dark arts?" One of the twin's scoffs, clutching an elaborately carved ceremonial dagger in her left hand that looks like it was invented for the sole purpose of causing pain.

"The spell calls for someone who runs with wolves, right?" Stiles says, ignoring her in favor of the desperate need for this frantically improvised plan to work. "Derek, he's—" So many ways to end that sentence, but only one that he can think of that will help right now. "He's more of a wolf, not someone who runs with them."

He clenches his hands, praying like hell that this will work. "But I am."

The twins' brows furrow into identical looks of confusion. "What?"

"It's simple, you see, my entire circle of friends either consists of creatures of the night or their hunters." He tells them. "But me? I'm just a plain, old, boring human."

He gives them a cocky grin that he hopes to hell doesn't falter.  
"I'm the human who runs with wolves."

The twins consider him for a moment and turn to glance at each other, exchanging a thoughtful look before turning back to him. "How do we know that you're not just making this all up?"

Shit. He didn't think this far. "I'm not lying; Look, I swear on my life."

The other twin snorts, arching one of her eyebrows. "Why would you willingly give us this information, knowing the harm that will come to you now?"  
He opens his mouth, but no words come out, and he finds his eyes simply flicking over to where Derek is sprawled in the chair; still unconscious. A movement that does not go unnoticed by the twins' sharp eyes.

"Aww, the Sheriff's son has a crush on the big bad wolf." One of the twin coos, making her way over to tug him forward by his shirt collar. "What are you, little blue riding hood?"

"That's enough, Cassie." Her sister replies, (Carrie, he dimly recalls Parrish saying) making her way over and tugging Cassie backwards, while letting the corners of her mouth turn down into sneer. "He wants to help us complete the spell, so let's let him."

And with that, she plunges her ceremonial knife right into his arm.  
Agony ignites and ripples through him with tremendous force and he screams, throwing his head backwards with such force that he feels the chair tip slightly. Excitement lights up the twins' faces and Cassie soon joins her sister's efforts with her switchblade. White-hot pain licks the wounds they deal him and his throws his body around to try and escape it, but they hold him down and his throat goes raw from screaming.

Eventually he finds himself flickering in and out of reality, memories from his past churning and frothing around the events playing out right before his eyes and the intricate designs (complete with swirls and intricate detailing that put Derek's triskele tattoo to shame) being carved into his skin.

_He cowers on the floor, his mother standing above him.  
"I told you not to touch it!" She shrieks, sprinkling yet another line of black ash across his window as he clutches his stinging cheek, struggling to blink back the tears rising to his eyes. She looks like a woman possessed, the farthest thing from his kind mom who used to read him fairytales before he fell asleep each night—_

The tip of the knife caresses his skin from his right shoulder to just below his elbow and he gives another shout of pain, pressing his arm back into the arm of the chair to try and escape to the blade, but with no success. The only thing his efforts earn him: another backhand to his face. And this time the ring catches his lips and he tastes earthy copper as blood wells up—

"_Jesus, Claudia!"_

_Blood is painted across the floor in elaborate sigils that Stiles catches a brief glance of before his dad slaps a hand over his eyes, picking him up and holding him so his back is to where his mom is sitting on the floor, paying no mind to her husband or child. Before his dad had picked him up he'd caught sight of the blood running down her arm and the bloodstained knife lying by her side.  
"I have to look again." She murmurs determinedly, frenziedly; obsessively drawing the symbols and refusing to look at the two of them. "I have to see who it is, what kind of bitch dares to mess with us. And the spell has to be stronger, animal blood won't cut it this time."_

"_What—this time?" His dad's voice is tight, strangled and Stiles' clutches tightly to his uniform, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to shut out the world at the same time—_

"Scream for us." A pair of green eyes demands, grabbing Stiles' chin and pulling him forward in a bruising grip as another line of fire ignites along his forearm—  
_"Don't scream, baby, this is for the best." His mom tells him, advancing towards him in her hospital issued nightgown. The pale blue makes her skin seem that much more sallow and sickly, her eyes that much more mad. Stiles tries to press himself further in the wall, panic setting his chest alight—_

His chest is on fire as they slice through the t-shirt, staining the pretty blue that awful shade of red—

_Her pale, clammy hands ensnare his hair, tugging him forward as he gives a cry of pain. "Mom, stop!"_

"_Shh, shh, it's all for the best." She tells him desperately, clutching him so tightly that it's painful. "You'll forget all about him, forget everything that you knew, and then you'll be safe." _

"_Forget who?" He asks her, but a terrible feeling in his gut tells him that he already knows._

"_Derek." She growls out, and Stiles feels his eyes widen and he starts shaking his head frantically._

"_No, no! I don't want to forget Derek! He's my friend! You can't make me forget him! Please!" He tells her hysterically and she responds by shaking him into silence—_

"I said: scream!" Another blow to his face, but he doesn't have enough air left in his lung to force another scream past his bloodstained lips—

"_Shut up!" His mom hisses. "I'm doing this for your own good!" She moves her hands to cup his face as tears begin to run down his cheeks and he starts to sob. "Don't you see? As long as you stay with him, the only thing waiting for you will be fire and death—"_

"I think we had all the fun we can with this one." A voice remarks lightly. "What do you say we have a go at the other one—?"

"_He's my friend." Stiles begs—_

"We have to do the spell first." The other voice insists. "Otherwise it won't work—"

"_Fire and death!" His mother insists. "It'll follow you around for the rest of your life—!"_

"Fine." The voice replies grumpily. "Untie him and bring him over to the altar."

He's aware of his body being lifted and then thrown to the ground, only to be dragged over the rough ground to his next destination—

"_Trust me, baby, I'm doing this for your own good." His mother tells him, tilting his head back as her eyes glow dark grey and he desperately struggles against her hold—  
_"Hold still." The voice tells him, shoving him onto the ground, and he notes something shiny twirl in the light as it gives him a gleaming grin. "Trust me, this won't hurt a bit. Well, actually," it laughs, "it'll hurt a lot—"

_He can feel his mother's presence, reaching into his mind and stealing his memories, stealing Derek away and she—she **can't**—he won't let her—_the knife is plunging towards him—_**he won't!**_

Light explodes from him in all directions, blanketing the entire area in pure white, and he feels his body arc as energy courses through his veins; escaping through his fingertips to crackle through the room. The feeling, the rush, as though a dam he didn't know existed within him has finally broke, is wonderful, spreading through his entire body and re-energizing him. And all the memories, the images pressing down on his mind, fade into a tranquil stillness that allows him to just finally **_breathe_**.

Abruptly though, the rush ends, sending him slumping back towards the ground and struggling to get back up again, blinking away the reminder of that brilliant white light. It hurts to move, his entire body composed of one huge ache, and his taste buds struggle to evade the lingering taste of copper. But eventually, he manages to pull himself into a sitting position, glancing around as he does so. Derek is still unconscious (talk about a heavy sleeper) and the twins are out cold on the floor, sharp weapons of death lying useless (though still stained dark red with his blood) in their hands. And as he carefully pulls himself to his feet, he keeps his eyes trained on them, should they suddenly spring back to life like the demons they are.

He glances down his arms and feels surprise shoot through him; though the memory of the twins carving their marks into his skin is painfully vivid, the marks have faded completely. He pats down his pockets, looking for his phone, not surprised when he doesn't find it, and after a minute of glancing around, manages to locate it lying on the table with all the weapons of mass destruction. He hobbles over and grabs it, debating whether to call Scott or 911, before a slight groan from Derek's direction has his spinning around instantly. His heart jumps as he watches Derek stir slowly, and he grabs one of the sharp knives on the table before making his way over.

"Hey," He says, his voice still raw cracked from all the screaming, as he works his way through Derek's ropes with the knife. "Nice of you to join the party."

"Stiles?" Derek groans, shaking his head before sniffing the air and stiffening, probably catching the scent of the copious amount of Stiles' blood covering the floor. And actually, now that he thinks about that, how much blood did he lose? Enough that his vision is starting to go slightly blurry, but he figures whatever fixed the marks on his arm will fix that too.

"Stiles!" The panic in Derek's voice draws him back to the matter at hand and as he finishes sawing through the last of the ropes, Derek shoots up, hauling him up and glancing over him frantically.

"Hey, chill, dude, I'm fine." Then the world tilts dizzyingly and Stiles has to rethink that slightly as his legs go weak. "Ok, maybe I'm not."

"What happened?" Derek demands and Stiles struggles to think through the haze falling over his mind. "They were trying to summon a Marvel character...and then they knifed me a couple times...and that really hurt...like a whole fucking lot...and then they tried to sacrifice me to the Marvel character...and then this white light—that was really, really bright, and white—took them out and fixed me." He wobbles slight, his legs giving way as he collapses forward into Derek's chest. Thankfully, Derek catches him carefully and clutches him to his chest. "'Cept I think it might've only fixed me on the outside...lost a lot of blood on the...on the inside." He rests his head on Derek's shoulder. "Everythin's kinda fuzzy." He frowns up at Derek. "Do we call the police?"

"We're getting you to the hospital." Derek tells him, swinging him into his arms and taking off into a full on sprint, the air making him shiver as it runs over his cold skin.  
"No, no hospital." Stiles tells him, thumping his fist against Derek's chest weakly. "M' Dad'll find out."  
"Don't argue." Derek bites back and Stiles is surprised to hear a slight note of panic chasing his words.

"'You're worried." He tells him thickly, his tongue feeling heavy and useless in his mouth. He huffs out a laugh that takes way more effort that it should to form. "I must be dying." His gives Derek's chest another weak thump. "Take me to Deaton's. Not Hospital."

"Shut up." Derek tells him, clutching him tighter at his next words. "You're not dying."

"'en take me to Deaton's." Stiles orders him weakly.

"No." Derek replies harshly, and Stiles wants to give him another thump but he no longer has the energy to lift his arm and—yeah, maybe he should go to the hospital.

"Will you miss me?" He asks him, more serious than teasing, resting his head back against the warmth of his shoulder and letting his eyes start to slide closed.

Derek shakes his roughly. "Hey! Stay. Awake."  
Stiles snorts. "We 'eed to work on punctuation."  
"Yeah?" Derek asks, keeping his tone light, but Stiles can feel his hands shaking slightly where they hold him. "You going to be my tutor?"

Stiles shakes his head. "You have to like tutor, otherwise won't learn."  
Derek huffs out a forced laugh. "You sound more like a caveman than I do right now."

Stiles hums his agreement. "Not my fault. Lost lot of blood." He clutches the fabric of Derek's t-shirt between his fingertips, feeling his eyes beginning to slip closed again. "Tell Scott to look after my Dad." He tells him, swallowing down the _"I'll miss you"_ that rose to the tip of his tongue.  
"You're not going anywhere." Derek tells him, giving him another shake.  
Stiles lets out a breath that was supposed to be a laugh. "Why? 'cuz you're the Alpha n' you say so?"

"Yes." Derek tells him shortly and Stiles breathes out another laugh, staring up at Derek as his feelings for the stupid werewolf welled up within him. Darkness was pulling insistently at his vision, a heaviness pulling his body away from Derek's arms and to the ground below. Which is why he allowed the next words to fall out of his mouth. "I 'ave somethin' to tell you."

"I thought you had nothing to say to me." Derek jokes lightly, but his voice sounds stretched raw and thin.

"I 'as angry." Stiles tells him. "And sad. Cuz' you don't like me."

"Yes I do." Derek insists and Stiles wants to shake his head, but can't seem to make it move.

"Not like I like you." Stiles replies. " 'u're the Marius to my Eponiné."

"I have no idea who those people are." He hears Derek say, but the darkness has already stolen his vision.  
"Google it." Stiles answers, right before the black reaches up and swallows him completely.


	7. Chapter 7

Hey guys, next chapter time!  
Thank-you to everyone who read and a big thanks to those who reviewed, your kind comments inspire me to keep going ^^  
**Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf, that belongs to Jeff Davis.  
****Warnings: Language, Fallout from being kidnapped, vague references to Isaac's backstory.  
**Enjoy.

* * *

_Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,_  
_And like enough thou know'st thy estimate,_  
_The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;_  
_My bonds in thee are all determinate._  
_For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?_  
_And for that riches where is my deserving?_  
_The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,_  
_And so my patent back again is swerving._  
_Thy self thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,_  
_Or me to whom thou gav'st it else mistaking;_  
_So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,_  
_Comes home again, on better judgement making._  
_Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,_  
_In sleep a king, but waking no such matter._

-William Shakespeare, Sonnet LXXXVII

* * *

"Do you think you can tell the truth now?"

Parrish stands with his arms crossed over his chest, stiff, his jaw clenched and Stiles wants to phase through his sterile white sheets and teleport anywhere but there. When that fails, he looks down at his hands and says nothing, which earns him an angry bark from Parrish as he strides over to him.  
"Stiles, look at me."

He flinches; trepidation welling up within him as he turns his gaze to Parrish's hands, white knuckled as he grips the handrail of the hospital bed. "Do you have any idea how worried I was when you didn't text me? When I went to your house and found it empty?"

Stiles swallows down the huge lump of guilt that rises in his throat and stays silent.

"Hey," Parrish says, grabbing Stiles' shoulder, "I said look at me."

Stiles flicks his eyes up to Parrish briefly before shifting them away again.

"Do you know how close you were to—" Parrish breaks off, shaking his head. "What were you doing with Derek Hale? Was he the reason Cassie and Carrie kidnapped the two of you?" Something in Parrish's face shifts and his grip tightens on Stiles' shoulder. "Or did he—"

"Derek didn't do anything." Stiles protests, shaking his head defiantly. "Except save my life."

"Then tell me what did happened, now." Parrish demands and Stiles feels panic rise up in him because he has no idea what Derek told the police. And if his story doesn't corroborate with Derek's then Parrish will know that he's lying and then his dad will know that he lied and neither of them will ever trust him again, and he and Derek will be in a shit ton of trouble. "I—I—"

"Pretty sure I already filled you in on that Deputy."

Derek's voice drags both of their attention over to the doorway, where Derek is leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed, leveling Parrish with a look that Stiles is fairly certain has killed people before. (Though he guesses he should just be happy that his eyes aren't doing the whole 'blood red Alpha' thang.) He sends Derek an incredulous look because, what the hell? You don't glare at police officers like that, especially when you're a suspicious, lurk in dark corners, person of interest. God, is he _trying_ to get arrested?

Parrish straightens up, but keeps his arm on Stiles' shoulder and plants his feet firmly, keeping his body between Stiles and Derek. "Mr. Hale, I'm going to have to request that you wait outside."

"Why are you harassing us when it was those twins that kidnapped us?" Derek bites back.

"We're just covering all our bases." Parrish replies evenly, before nodding towards the door. "Now, please, wait outside while I question Mr. Stilinski."

"What bases are there to cover?" Derek demands, stepping further into the room despite the frantic motions that Stiles is making behind Parrish's back. "The twins kidnapped us, tied us up, then drained Stiles' blood for their—"

And ah, Stiles sees what Derek's doing now; finding a way to surreptitiously sneak him the information he needs in plain sight. Though, as aforementioned, Derek's levels of stealthy-ness leave something to be desired; if he's realized Derek's game then there's no way that Parrish hasn't caught on as well.

"That's enough, Mr. Hale." Parrish snaps, shifting forward slightly and leveling Derek with a look that tells him he'll be spending a night in holding on obstruction of justice charges if he objects. "Go wait outside, now."

Derek shoots Parrish a defiant look that has Stiles wondering how the hell a werewolf with super senses can't _see_ that no matter what he's going to lose this battle, before turning on his heel and storming out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Parrish turns back to him. "Continue Stiles."

Stiles glances up at him, steadying himself for the half truth, but mostly lie about to fall past his lips. "It's like Derek said. We were standing outside my house and then the twins showed up and blew some sort of freaky dust into our faces that knocked us out, and then next thing I knew I was waking up in this abandoned warehouse and they were—" He swallows hard, the memories of white hot pain and warm, wet, blood running down his pale skin rising back up. As does the urge to throw up, and he scrambles towards the trashcan on the other side of his bed.

He feels the pressure of Parrish's hand leave his shoulder and hears his footsteps run to the other side of the bed as Stiles' stomach writhes violently, and he pukes his guts up; coughing around the burning taste of the remnants of his hospital breakfast, just as appetizing on the way up as it was on the down.

"Hey, hey, shh, it's ok." Parrish says, rubbing his back gently, "It's ok."

Guilt laces his next words. "I'm sorry, look," He hesitates for a moment before continuing. "For now, I've gotten all I need in terms of a statement if what Derek told me is true, and you agree to his version of events. But if he's forcing you to lie, or putting pressure on you to—"

"It's the truth." Stiles gets out around the acrid taste in his mouth, accepting the juice box that Parrish hands him gratefully.

"Ok." Parrish nods, giving his back a final pat. "Melissa told me that they're all done with you, so you're free to go. And I called your Dad, but the Superintendent in New York said they needed him for a few more days. He and I agreed that I should stay with you until he gets back."

He stands up, making his way over to the door. "I'm going to go sign you out." He reaches for the doorknob and then pauses, turning back to Stiles and raising his finger warningly. "And don't think you're off the hook. I want to know what you were doing with Derek Hale," He opens the door, saying loudly enough for Derek to hear even if he didn't have super-hearing, "And you can bet your ass that your dad'll want to know too."

Parrish closes the door firmly, but it only takes a moment later for Scott, Isaac, Allison, Lydia, and finally Derek to burst through.

"Hey, you alright?" Scott asks, making his way over and squeezing his shoulder gently.

Stiles shoots him a grin. "I'm fine." He waves the hand with the IV in it at them. "Just pump a little fluid into my system and voila, good as new."  
"Wish I could say the same for your clothes." Lydia tells, brushing some hair out of his eyes, an action that belays the concern gleaming in her own.

Stiles shrugs. "I prefer breathing."

"So do we." Allison replies, sending him a small smile. But her posture is tight and Stiles notes that she has positioned herself as far away from Derek as she can possibly manage. "Do you have any idea why they attacked you?"

Stiles just gives another shrug because no way in hell is he going to reveal that they actually wanted to slice and dice Derek and he just happened to get caught in the crossfire; dude has enough of a guilt complex already. "We probably got in the way of their big bad doomsday plans."

"Did they even have one?" Lydia questions, and shakes her head. "I mean they killed three people that had absolutely no connection to each other."

"Well, there is one." Stiles points out and everyone stares at him in surprise.  
"You found a connection?" Isaac asks.  
"Well, no, my Dad did." Stiles tells them before a thought occurs to him. "Hang on, did I not tell you guys this?"

"Must have slipped your mind." Derek says in a clipped tone, staring at the hospital door instead of Stiles when he does so, the awkwardness of the situation making Stiles' gut squirm. He's not exactly sure where he stands with Derek, like, he'd pretty much confessed his eternal one sided love towards the guy the night before and then promptly fainted like some stupid damsel in his arms. But Derek probably wrote off what he said as temporary insanity and hasn't, nor has any plans to, Google it.

"So what's the connection?" Scott asks, his super senses obviously picking up on the awk. He could probably get a job as a personal awkward detector.  
"They were all in the same Grad class," Stiles tells them, "the same Grad class that my Dad was in." And his mom, and Derek's mom, but he keeps that particular little tidbit to himself.

Allison face screws up in confusion. "But why would the twins' target people from that Grad class? Do you think it's just a coincidence?"

"It could be." Stiles reasons, "But my dad's usually pretty close to spot on when it comes to stuff like this." At least, he had been during the whole Kanima fiasco.

They all fall into a short silence as they contemplate this, before Isaac shoots Stiles a sheepish grin and pulls a box out from behind his back.

"I got you something."

Stiles feels his eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he carefully takes the box from Isaac. "Really? Dude, you shouldn't have."  
Isaac shrugs. "I figured that almost dying, again, meant you were entitled to it."

"Thanks. Now at least I'll get something other than a deep fear of twins out of this whole thing." Stiles jokes and Lydia rolls her eyebrows while Derek clenches his jaw, so nothing new there. Stiles was right, he probably hasn't even bothered to Google it.

Stiles tears into the paper with a new ferocity to distract himself from the hurt thrumming through him, fuck Derek, what did he care if the asshole hadn't bothered to Google his potential last words? He lifts off the lid of the box and feels another wave of surprise shoot them him, and for a moment he simply stares at the present, struggling to wrap his mind around it.  
"What's wrong?" Isaac asks worriedly, "Do you not like it?"

Stiles shakes his head. "That's not it—it's just—" He reaches into the box and carefully lifts out the wolf stuffy that Derek's mom had given him when he was a baby.

Isaac stares at the toy as well, confusion taking over his face. "That's not—"  
"Where did you get that?" Derek demands, grabbing Isaac by the collar, but Scott quickly steps between the two of them and pulls Isaac back.  
"Dude, what the hell is your problem?" Scott snaps.  
"Where did you get that?" Derek repeats, his gaze not leaving Isaac.  
"I—I don't know." Isaac tells him shaking his head. "That's not what I put in there."  
"Then who—" Derek breaks off abruptly, realization dawning on him as he growls out, "_Peter_," before storming out of the room, steam practically coming out of his ears, while Stiles simply stares down at the stuffed toy is his hands. It looks well taken care of, save for the evidence of chewing around it's ears, and like he was cuddling it in his bedroom just yesterday and not over ten years ago.

"Stiles?" Lydia asks carefully, "What is it?"

"It's, uh—it's mine." He tells her, and he can practically feel her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "From when I was a little kid, a—a friend of my mom's got it for me."

Stiles runs a hand over his eyes and through his hair, looking for a convenient way to change the subject, and nearly crying in relief when a thought occurs to him and he finds it. "You know, there's something else bothering me about the twins—"

"You're all set to go, kiddo, I just need to take your IV out and—" Melissa stops halfway over to Stiles' bed once she notes their unsettled expressions. "What's wrong?"  
Scott shakes his head and sends her a tight smile. "Nothing mom, we're fine."

Melissa shoots him a look that tells him she doesn't believe him for a moment before continuing over and taking out Stiles' IV. "Uh huh, well, no matter what's going on, you, Stiles, are not getting involved with it. So all of you skedaddle."

The rest of the group grumbles slightly, but leaves the room, Scott sending Stiles a meaningful look before leaving that tells Stiles that this conversation is definitely not over.

"I mean it Stiles," Melissa tells him drawing his attention back to her, "You need _plenty_ of rest."

"Hey, no objections here." Stiles tells her, throwing the covers off and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, putting the wolf back into the box as he does so. "I could sleep for like ten years."

"Well, maybe not that much rest." Melissa tells him with a smile before handing him his clothes. "Oh, before I forget," She reaches into the pocket of her scrubs and pulls out a familiar brown chord, a little silver triskele dangling on the end. "This fell out of one of your pockets."

"Thanks." Stiles tells her, taking it back gingerly.

"No problem." Melissa replies easily, giving him a small wink. "So, is it for a girl?"

A wry smile pulls at the corners of Stiles' lips as he huffs out a small, more than slightly bitter, laugh.

"Something like that." He answers, his eyes flicking over to the door, unable to stop himself from hoping that the footsteps advancing towards it are Derek's, and unable to curb the disappointment that filters through him when Deputy Parrish appears instead.

* * *

Parrish takes the morning off from work to move some of his things over to the Stilinski house, but has to return to the station around noon, giving Stiles a reprieve from the questioning and some time to come up with a good reason why he and Derek were hanging out together. Though he spends most of the time in his bedroom, shifting between snoozing and contemplating the memories he had seen at the warehouse.

Specifically the part where his mom's eyes had glowed dark grey like some sort of freaky special effect but real, oh so very real.

And the feeling of her presence pressing down on his mind, sifting through his memories and trying to tear the ones of Derek out of him, which, he's guessing she succeeded in.

Last time he checked, humans didn't have glowing eyes of any kind, nor could they erase someone's memory.  
So that meant she was, what, exactly? A fairy? A witch?

And then what did that make him? That blinding white light, and the energy that it had brought with it, crackling throughout the surrounding air and his body, that definitely wasn't human either.

He feels tears pinprick the corners of his eyes and he struggles to stop them from escaping. Fear is ricocheting through him, panic following right after. He's spent his whole life believing that he was, and that his mother was, nothing but human, complete with pale skin, fragile bones; the whole nine yards. But now? Now he doesn't know what to think. Or do. It's all just—just a huge mess. A huge hole that he has no idea how to clamber out of.

And if she was a witch, or whatever, the things she had kept murmuring, about how Derek and 'that bitch' had set them all aflame. About how she had 'seen what was to come, could she have seen the future, seen the Hale Fire and blamed Derek for it? Was that why she was so focused on keeping Derek away from him, and the reason for those intricate sigils all over their floor? But why, why had she—

His phone beeps, drawing his attention from his thoughts and over to it. He debates grabbing it for a moment before reaching over with a sigh and drawing it over to him. He unlocks it to see that he has a message from Danny, and quickly opens it.

_'Traced the text' _It reads, '_you wouldn't happen to know an Aconita Ákóvitov, would u? BTW Lydia told me wat happened, u ok?'_

'_Yeah, fine, thanks.'_ Stiles texts back_ 'And no, I don't.' _It was probably the twins, trying to be funny by coming up with a proxy using the root word for 'wolf's bane' for a last name. And he's more than willing to bet that the meaning of "Aconita" is more than a little similar to "Aconite." It's childish, belaying the sheer amount of unoriginality that the two possess. Which makes him all the more frustrated that they managed to get the jump on him and Derek, and that he can't piece their plan together. Why go to all the trouble of summoning those monsters, of summoning Neil, and messing with Jamie's memories, to kill those people? Surely, it would have been easier to do it with their magic? He just…there are so many outliers, his long lost memories returning, finding out that his mother wasn't as human as he'd thought she was, finding out that maybe he wasn't as human as he thought he was—and anyway, why would the twins care about his memories returning? Why go to all that trouble of putting that box together? What was the point of it all?

His phone beeps again and he looks down. _'Well, watevr it is ur doing, dnt die, alrt? Look aftr urself.'_

'_Will do.' _He texts back, and just as he finishes typing out the messages and clicks the send button, his phone beeps again, this time with a message from Scott.

_'U up 4 a meetn Deatons?'_

* * *

When Stiles gets there, everybody else has already arrived, and Peter is nursing the remainder of a black eye with some ice.

"Whoa, what happened to you?" He asks, making his way in, and wondering whether whatever or whoever happened to Peter will appreciate a gift basket.  
Peter rolls his eyes. "Ask your—" He breaks off with a low growl from Derek, "I mean, my darling nephew."

Ah, that's a no then.

Stiles casts a look at Derek as he makes his way further into the room before turning his attention back to Peter. "Why haven't you healed already?"

"Unfortunately, I'm still recovering from my little visit to the other side." Peter tells him, wincing slightly as he takes the ice away from his eye.

"Aw, you know, you didn't have to rush back on our account." Stiles quips, and Peter shoots him a glare.

"Hilarious."

"If we could all settle down and get to the matter at hand." Deaton breaks in and they all turn to look at him. "I want to discuss the twins, Cassie and Carrie."

"You mean the evil, murdering, witches?" Isaac supplies and Stiles has to hide a wince at the word 'witches', and the connotation that comes with it.  
"Interestingly enough Isaac, the witches part was the thing I wanted to discuss." Deaton tells him, a phantom of a smile tugging on the corners of his lips before seriousness dominates his face once again. "I don't believe the twins are the witches we're looking for."

"What?" Scott demands incredulously, and Stiles feels shock clunk his over the head with an iron bucket, as he demands just as incredulously, "How can they not be?"

"I did a little investigation of my own into the two of them," Deaton tells them, and Stiles doesn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to guess that that _'investigation'_ was more than a little illegal. "And I'm fairly confident that the two of them couldn't tell the difference between a Grimoire and a cookbook."

"They sure seemed to know what they were doing yesterday." Stiles says, recalling the altar smeared with blood and the sharp knifes with their white hot pain—and cutting that thought off, cutting it off now.

"Yes, and I believe that's because they had a sponsor, of sorts." Deaton replies, and yeah, Stiles thinks, that would certainly explain how they were able to sneak up on him and Derek, and that freaky dust that they spewed in their faces.

"A sponsor?" Scott asks, his face screwing up in confusion.

Deaton nods. "Most likely, whoever are really behind the attacks."

"So what, the twins were some sort of distraction?" Stiles asks, and the thought makes his skin crawl, the idea that they were beaten by the sideshow, and not the main event, causing dread to snatch at his heart.

Deaton nods again. "Yes. When I went to go make sure that the scene of the crime, shall we say, co-operated with Derek's version of events, I managed to detect slight traces of magic in the area. Whoever did that is probably our—"

"No." Stiles says, and they all turn to look at him, as apprehension begs his mouth to remain shut. "It wasn't them."

"And how do you know that, Stiles?" Peter asks, but judging by the smug smirk on his face, the bastard already knows, and probably always has.  
"Stiles?" Scott asks, concern echoing through his tone.  
Stiles takes a deep breath, steadying himself to talk over his apprehension's pleading. "Because it was me, alright? I was the one who did the whole razzle dazzle magic show thing."

A stunned silence falls over the room as Stiles shuffles uncomfortably under everyone's gaze.

"It was you." Derek repeats and Stiles can't help but bristle at the disbelief in his tone.  
"Yeah, Alpha Dick, it was me, you got a problem with that?"

"Stiles," Deaton breaks in gently, but firmly, "I think that Derek was trying to ask for an explanation. Something that I'm sure the rest of us wouldn't mind as well."

"I'll say." Scott butts in, staring at Stiles with hurt prevailing over his shock and Stiles gives himself a mental kick as he remembers their conversation about telling each other things and knows Scott is gonna give him hell for this.  
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair before letting it fall back to his side. "Ok."

"For the past few weeks, I've been…remembering things."

"What things?" Isaac interrupts and Stiles sends him a look. "I'm getting to that, just, hold on."  
He clenches his hands as he struggles to let the words fall past his lips. "I've been remembering things from when I was younger." He takes another deep breath, raising his eyes to Derek's. "From when I knew you and your family."

Derek's face spams in an interesting way, but Stiles doesn't give him a chance to jump in, breaking the eye contact a moment later.  
"At first it was just flashes, blurry figures, and sense memory things. And then eventually everything started to become clearer." He swallows hard, clenching his hands so hard that they hurt. "And I started to remember things about my mom as well."

"Stiles—" Scott starts, moving towards him, but Stiles just keeps going. He has to keep going, if he stops now, he's not sure that he's going to finish.  
"It was…the memories were…were from when she started…from when started to get sick." He manages to get out at last, staring at the floor, if he sees that smothering pity reflected in Scott's eyes he might lose it. "She…she kept saying—lots of things, actually, but the point is, that when the twins were doing—what they did—to me I kept flashing between the memories and-and what was going on. And I remembered her coming towards me, and her eyes glowed this, like, dark grey, and I—I could feel her, in my head, trying to erase my memories of D—of the Hales, and I—I sorta lost it—and it was like something just snapped—and I just—" He shrugs, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. "When I got up they were both out cold on the floor."

Silence reigns over the room for a few minutes, what feels like hours to Stiles, before Deaton speaks. "Interesting."

The vet moves over to his shelves, delving in them and pulling out a bottle of pale red dust, calling over his shoulder as he does so. "You said that all of this started a few weeks ago, correct?"

Stiles nods, casting Deaton a curious look. "Yeah."

Deaton turns to face him. "Around the same time that the Lamiae attacked Mr. Harris?"

Stiles nods again, confusion making its way onto his face. "Well, yeah, actually."  
Deaton hums thoughtfully. "I thought so." He gestures towards the examination table. "Would you mind lying down there for a moment?"

"Uh, why?" Stiles says, glancing at the jar in his hand suspiciously.  
"I have a theory I'd like to test." Deaton tells him.  
"What kind of theory?" Derek demands, beating Scott to it.  
"Nothing that will harm him, I assure you." Deaton replies evenly, gesturing towards the table again and turning back to Stiles. "Please."

Stiles hesitantly makes his way over to the table, pulling himself up and lying down on the cool metal, watching each and every movement that Deaton makes with an inordinate amount of suspicion. Deaton gestures to the dust in his hand. "This, is Verbena, it's been associated with the supernatural for far longer than any of the other herb. It's used, primarily, to suppress, protect, or in this case, detect the magic of witches or warlocks."

"Sorcerers," Stiles supplies, with a little shrug, trying to disguise the nervous beating of it heart, "its gender neutral."  
"So I keep being told." Deaton tells him dryly, unscrewing the lid as he does so and pouring a little bit into his hands. "Now, if I'm right, this is going to feel a bit odd, but it shouldn't hurt."

He sets the jar down, poising his hand over Stiles' body before pausing. "I recommend closing your eyes."

Stiles stares at him for a moment before complying (he doesn't want to get dust in his eyes) and feels the soft dust fall over his body as Deaton sprinkles it over him.

For a minute, he feels nothing.

And then he feels his body jolt as energy crackles through him, his eyes and mouth flying open as a gasp escapes him, and his body arches slightly off the table. It feels like pure electricity is coursing through his veins, but without any of the pain, just an exhilarating rush that makes him feel like he could take on the world; and maybe even Derek.

And then a harsh green glow attracts his attention and he glances down and nearly falls off the examination table, Scott's arms the only thing that keeps him from toppling over. "AHH!"

"What the fuck?!" Derek echoes his thoughts exactly.

His entire body is lit up by that harsh green light, drawn in swirling spirals across his skin like someone took a glow in the dark calligraphy pen to him when he was sleeping. The swirls cover every single fucking inch of his flesh, and when he closes his eyelids, he can see the swirling pattern on them as well.  
"What the hell is happening to me?" Stiles demands, backing up further into Scott; who grips his arms tightly, his eyes impossibly wide as they also take in the swirling patterns canvasing his flesh like he's the masterpiece of some freaky abstract art show.

"Relax." Deaton tells him and Stiles shoots him an incredulous look.  
"Relax? I look like Saint Patrick's day personified and you want me to _relax_?" His voice grows to a near screech by the end of his sentence and he sees Isaac's shocked expression break into a wince at the high pitch.

"The verbena is doing exactly what I thought it would." Deaton replies calmly, and it makes Stiles want to throw something at him. "Revealing another sorcerer's magic."

"God, are you allergic to straight answers or something?" Stiles demands and Deaton ignores him, continuing on as though he had never spoken.

"You may recall that when I first voiced my opinion that we could be dealing with sorcerer's, I said that there would have to be at least two for the kind of magic that the spells being preformed required." He nods towards the lightshow that is Stiles' skin. "But after hearing your story, Stiles, another possibility sprang to mind."

"Which is?" Scott questions, finally recovering from the shock.

"Those swirling patterns on Stiles' skin indicate that a spell has been placed on him, and given what he told us about his memories returning, I can only guess that it was placed on him shortly before the Lamiae attacked Adrian Harris." Deaton informs them and Stiles feels panic shoot through him.  
"What kind of spell?" He demands.

"Well, if I had to guess, I'd say the kind that drains the other person's magic." Peter breaks in, smirk still fully in place.  
Scott's brows furrow in confusion. "Wait. Someone's draining Stiles' magic?"

"But why would his memories come back because of that?" Derek says, turning his gaze away from Stiles and towards Deaton; and Peter rolls his eyes.  
"Well, you see, darling nephew, most sorcerers get their powers in early adolescence." He nods towards Stiles. "The fact that Stiles' powers are only just appearing means that mommy dearest probably locked them all away when she tore out all those memories of us. Which is a shame, because we had some good times."

"How do you know so much?" Stiles asks. "Was there some kind of class on this in the afterlife?" And yeah, he's rubbing salt in that particular wound, because there's no way that Peter calls his mother 'mommy dearest' in that mocking tone and gets away with it.

"Because, _baby boy_, your mother, being the witch that she was, used to consult with my big sister all the time." Peter tells him smoothly, though his eyebrow twitches slightly at the afterlife comment, and Stiles' whole body jerks at the _'baby boy' _comment_._ "And the fact that I have extremely good hearing might have had something to do with it as well."

"So when whoever the sorcerer is placed the spell on Stiles, they broke the spell that Stiles' mother placed on him?" Scott questions, turning everyone's attention back to the matter at hand.

"More like loosened it." Deaton tells him. "And over time, Stiles' magic and the continued use of that spell continued to loosen it, until yesterday at the warehouse, where the seal finally broke."

"What you say continued use of the spell, do you mean that it wasn't a one time thing?" Stiles questions, eager to get away from the topic of what happened at the warehouse.

Deaton shakes his head. "No, whoever placed the spell on you would only have been able to drain a limited amount of energy at a time. It has to be someone who has contact with you at least twice in the past few weeks."

"But that's impossible!" Stiles points out exasperatedly, the glowing on his skin beginning to fade. "The only people I've seen other than Lydia, Allison, Danny, and everyone in this room, more than twice in the past few weeks are the twins."

"It can't be any of us." Scott says, before a thought occurs to him and he turns to Deaton, giving Peter an extremely obvious side-eye.  
"Unless...can you be a sorcerer and a werewolf?"

Deaton shakes his head. "I've certainly never heard of it."

"But that only leaves Lydia, Allison, and Danny." Isaac argues, shaking his head.  
"The hunter isn't who we're looking for," Peter pipes in, and shrugs when they all turn to look at him, "she doesn't have the right blood for it." A dark, twisted, smile pulls up the corners of his lips. "It's too pure, like silver."

"What about Lydia?" Derek counters. "She was immune to the bite, which means she must be something. And wasn't that Danny kid Jackson's friend—"  
"Whoa, hold on, you guys aren't seriously suspecting Lydia and Danny, are you?" Stiles breaks in, shaking his head in disbelief. "They're our friends, friends being the exact opposite of evil manipulating sorcerer's that want to kill us to death!"

"Well who else is there?" Derek snaps.  
"There's—well—but Lydia—and Danny didn't even know about the whole werewolves thing until Jackson told him!" Stiles protests, realizing what he's said seconds too late for him to pull the words back.  
"Danny knows?" Scott demands, his eyes huge and Stiles winces. "When did you find out that?"  
"When I saw him at the library yesterday." Stiles tells him before launching into his explanation as fast as he possibly can. "Look, I was gonna tell you when I got home but then the twins—"  
"How do you know that he was telling the truth?" Derek cuts in.  
"Because—because it's Danny." Stiles sends imploring looks at all of them. "Look, guys, he's on our side, he even helped me trace a text—"  
"What text?" Scott demands, "What else have you been hiding?"

Stiles stares at him with surprise before frustration and the barest traces of anger take over. "I haven't been hiding anything! I got a text from an anonymous number saying that they'd left some answers for me at the library, all right? I'm sorry I went and got myself kidnapped and tortured before I could tell you about it."

"Why didn't you text me when you got it?" Scott counters and Stiles…doesn't have a good answer for that.

"What answers?" Derek adds, and good, Stiles has an answer for this.

"They left me a box in the town records room that had…that had our moms' high school yearbook photos, a bunch of news articles about stuff they'd done, and…and a bunch of personal photos."

"Personal photos?" Derek questions, his brows creasing as his jaw clenches.  
"Yeah, like, pictures from when we were younger." Stiles tells him, avoiding his gaze in favour of the floor. "I left them in the box, I was planning to go back for them later."

He digs into his pocket, drawling out the necklace, watching Derek's face go through some more interesting spasms as he takes it in. "This was there too."  
"Well, isn't that interesting." Peter comments, barely managing to finish his sentence before Derek grabs him by his shirt collar, hauling him forward.  
"If you had anything to do with this—" Derek starts, his voice low and menacing, and yeah, Stiles sees what Danny was talking about with the whole 'I already dug the grave' vibes.

"Relax, Derek, this particular little trick wasn't me." Peter tells him. "Though I have to admire their style, even though it is a little cliché; the whole box full of information plot device?" He rolls his eyes. "So unoriginal."

"What is it?" Isaac asks, watching the necklace warily, and Stiles can practically see him flashing back to the whole Jamie-Neil-Locket fiasco.

"It's just this necklace that I had when I was younger." Stiles tells him, putting the necklace back in his pocket.  
"So who sent you the text?" Scott asks; his arms still crossed over his chest to signal to Stiles loud and clear that he's still pissed at him.  
Stiles shakes his head. "Danny traced it to a proxy account, belonging to someone named, speaking of unoriginal—"

"Who cares what the hell they're called?" Derek growls, and whoa, that is totally unnecessary right there. All things considered Derek should be on his knees thanking Stiles for offering himself up to those fucking twins instead of letting him get sliced and diced; landing him with yet another wonderful nightmare to chase him out of sleep in the fucking ungodly hours of the morning. Fucking ungrateful werewolves. "None of this proves that he isn't the sorcerer."  
"Wha—he's not—look, why would he help us if he was the sorcerer?" Stiles argues, glaring at Derek.

"He could've pretended to trace it." Derek tells him but Stiles is shaking his head before he even finishes his sentence.  
"You don't know Danny; I'm telling you it's not—"  
"Not as well as you know him." Derek bites back and Stiles feels hurt ripple through him before indignation wells up and washes over it.  
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He demands as he swings his legs over the side of the examination table and slides off.

"I think you know." Derek tells him, making his way over to where Stiles is standing. "He's certainly had enough opportunities to have 'contact' with you, hasn't he?"

Stiles feels heat crawl up to his face as hot embarrassment rushes through him, somehow Derek's managed to make the word 'contact' synonymous with sex, and the connotation rings loudly through the charged air covering them all.

"That's none of your business." Stiles bites at him, anger barely blanketing the hurt coloring his tone. And it does hurt; having the person you have feelings for throw things like that in your face, a sharp cut to the quick that leaves him desperately trying to staunch the pain.  
"A sorcerer is using your magic to murder people." Derek snarls. "You expect me to just let that happen?"

"I expect you to-" Stiles breaks off, throwing his hands in the air. You know what? Fuck this. Seriously, fuck this with one of those maraschino cherries on top. He's been kidnapped, tortured, and discovered that both he and his mother are sorcerers, all in the space of a few hours. He does not need this fucking bullshit from Derek on top of it. "Fuck this," He says, moving past Derek and heading towards the door, "I'm out of here. Text me when you guys finally develop some common sense."

"Hey we're not—" Derek snaps, hand reaching out to snag his arm—  
"I don't fucking care!" Stiles shouts, spinning around to face him again as a the sound of a light bulb shattering dimly makes itself known to his ears. Derek freezes, and he most have some seriously fucked-up expression on his face because Isaac and Scott are looking at him with open shock and concern; and he feels dangerously close to crying or just flat out screaming with frustration. "Just—just—leave me alone."

He throws those words over his shoulder before bolting out of the Vet's, not stopping for breath until he's at least fifteen minutes down the road in his Jeep.

* * *

Though, because it's a truth universally acknowledged that Derek cannot let fucking anything go, he's not surprised when the Alpha shows up on his doorstep about an hour later. And thankfully, he no longer feels like he's about to cry, though he wouldn't be adverse to throwing that ugly vase that his Aunt Sheryl sent them for Christmas four years ago, that they only keep on display out of a sense of familial duty, at Derek.

He gives a long suffering sigh, leaving the door open and storming his way back to the kitchen, where he had been drinking some of the tea that Parrish had brought over with him; implying that Derek should make his own way in. And sure enough, a few minutes later, he hears Derek's footsteps tap down the hall before tall, dark, and fucking asshole makes his way into the kitchen too.

"I suppose there's no point in me telling you to fuck off?" Stiles asks, taking a long sip of his tea.

Derek clenches his fists and takes a very deep breath. "I Googled it."

Stiles' fingers freeze to his mug, as the rest of his body turns into a Popsicle. "What?"

Derek scowls down at the floor, avoiding his gaze. "What you told me last night, I Googled it."

Stiles stares at him for a moment, frozen, as he lets those words sink in, before thawing just in time and turning back to his tea.  
"Wow, you mean you actually know how to use the Internet?" He jokes, avoiding Derek's gaze. "I'm impressed."

"They're not real." Derek says bluntly and Stiles raises his eyebrow at him.  
"Yes, Derek, Eponiné and Marius are _fictional characters_—"  
"No!" Derek snaps, glaring at him, "That's not what I mean."

Stiles heart thumps loudly in his chest and he hopes to god that the words he thinks are about to fall out of Derek's mouth aren't the ones that actually will.

"Your feelings for me," Derek tells him, and Stiles feels his heart rend ever so slightly, "they aren't real."

Stiles stares at him incredulously for a few minutes before speaking, the words sounding stretched as he pushes them past his lips. "Hate to break it to you Derek, but it's not that simple. My feelings don't just—not exist—just because you don't agree with them—"

"That's not it." Derek cuts in sharply, stepping further into the kitchen. "Look, what you said about us knowing each other when we were younger, that's true—"  
"You mean you knew?" Stiles demands, shock and confusion flaring through him. "Then… then why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't think it was important." Derek tells him impatiently and, wow, that remark cuts to the quick. Stiles feels his hands tighten on the mug, and he has to resist the impulse to check his skin for the wound currently bleeding out such vast amounts of hurt.

"You didn't think it was important." Stiles echoes, trying to make the words make sense, pondering the bitter taste they leave on his tongue and the way they make his throat tighten.

"Yes." Derek huffs out in frustration before continuing. "Look, when we were younger, you would…do magic sometimes—"

"And you didn't think this was important to tell me either?" Stiles asks, but he can't seem to find the heat he wants to charge those words with, so they come out flat.

"I thought maybe you'd just—grown out of it or something." Derek tells him, and his almost blasé attitude about the whole thing only makes it hurt that much more.

"But one time you got it into your head that we were best friends, and you made me promise that we'd be best friends forever." Derek continues, rolling his eyes, and it makes Stiles chest hurt that much more even as he flushes with embarrassment. Apparently he was wrong, Derek could be even more of an asshole than he usually was if he wanted to. "I agreed, but later, your mother told me that you'd preformed some sort of…joining spell that connected us together for the rest of our lives. She promised to get you to annul it when you were old enough to know how, but then she—got sick."

"So this…joining spell, are you saying that's the reason why I have feelings for you?" Stiles says slowly after a moment of charged silence, letting the words sink in.

Derek nods. "Yes."

"That's total bullshit."

Derek's eyebrows fly up in slight surprise and just the tiniest hint of panic flashes over his face and Stiles wonders how it must feel for the werewolf to be caught in a lie. He wonders if this is the first time, because it certainly looks like it is, but c'mon, as lies go, that was one terrible fucking one. He should know, he sits on a throne of them.

"Deaton just told us that sorcerers get their powers during adolescence." Stiles tells him, shaking his head as he carefully puts his tea down on the counter, before turning back to Derek and crossing his arms over his chest. "So there's no way that's true."

Derek looks even more statue-like than usual and Stiles hates him for it; why should he be the only one who feels like his heart is literally cracking apart in his chest?

"Look, if you don't…feel the same way about me just—just say so. Don't," He takes a deep breath to steady himself against the burning in his chest and eyes. "Don't try and make it seem like my—like my fucking feelings—and everything that happened between us when we were younger-mean nothing just because you don't—like me back or whatever." If Derek's going to break his heart, can't he at least let him have these feelings for him, and those memories? Let them die away on their own, instead of throwing them back in his face with a sneer and calling them fake?  
And in a sudden rush of either bravery or fatigue Stiles lets these next words rush past his lips. "Just say it to my face. Do you like me, or not?"

Derek tightens his jaw and glares at Stiles firmly in response. "No, I don't."

And really, there's no need to accompany those words with a glare, or that annoyed tone of voice, Stiles is already busy with the heartbreak slicing his heart out of his chest with its burning talons, he doesn't need the extra rush of anger and hurt that crackles along his skin. "Well, glad we got that sorted out. I'm sorry that you had to actually accept the existence of my feelings long enough to reject them." He rolls his eyes. "Must have been so hard for you."

"You wanted the truth." Derek tells him with a shrug and Stiles is about five seconds from throwing his coffee mug at him. "Don't blame me if you don't like it."

Something snaps audibly in him and he straightens up, turning towards Derek and marching over to him, anger crackling along his skin and through the air around them; the kitchen lights flickering slightly.

"You know what Derek, I do blame you, and you wanna know why? The past few weeks you've been alternating between sticking your nose into every fucking thing I do and acting like my daily life and interactions are about your great fucking Alpha self." Stiles laughs bitterly, shaking his head slightly, because otherwise he might start crying. "And I—I actually convinced myself that that meant in some, weird, asshole, Alpha way that you actually gave a fuck about me."

"So what? If I save you life that must mean I have feelings for you?" Derek demands, glaring right back down at Stiles and Stiles pushes down the urge to punch him.

"No. But shoving me into doors after I make out with people and yelling at me for it usually means you do." Stiles tells him evenly.

Derek's lips twist as a scowl takes over his face. "That was because—"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I know, you had a problem with me getting some while murdery things were happening, I get it. But that stops now."  
Derek opens his mouth to speak but Stiles ploughs right through him. "Scott and Allison went through at_ least_ two boxes of condemns during the whole Kanima thing and I never saw you throw him against a hard surface of any kind. So if you—" Stiles breaks off, gathering himself for a moment before continuing. "So you have no right to keep showing up and ruining my life. Danny told me what you did at the club, 'requesting' that they never let in your 'little brother' again? Really, Derek? And fucking with Danny's phone?"

"I—" Derek starts, but Stiles cuts him off again.

"You have no right to-to ruin my chances at other relationships if you don't—if you don't feel the same way." Stiles finishes, all the anger and fight slumping out of him with those words, replacing them with a fatigue that feels bone deep. And suddenly all he wants to do is just curl up on his bed and cry his eyes out as soon as Derek is out of hearing distance.

"Stiles." Derek says, and his voice sounds similar to the one that they used to use around his mother's bedside and he just…he just wants him to go away. But he also wants him to stay, wants him wrap his arms around him and beg whoever will listen for him to feel the same way. So it's not just him standing here with the mangled remains of a heart beating pitifully in his chest as he fights back the tears gathering in his eyes. And he feels…he feels like such a girl for thinking that…but it's what he wants. It feels like Derek has rendered him in two, like he snapped something inside him that was only just realizing itself and he wants the opportunity to mourn it. To bury it beneath in the cold earth and try and move past it. But he also wants to cling to it desperately, breathe life back into it and it's all...it's all...too much. Just a huge mess of conflicting emotions roiling through him.

"Stiles." Derek's hands are reaching towards him and Stiles can't let them touch him, because if they do he's not sure whether he'll punch Derek and scream at him or cling desperately to him and cry his eyes out. So he takes a step backward, shaking his head and putting up his hands defensively. "I think—" He takes a deep breath and steadies his voice until it doesn't sound as strangled. "You need to leave."  
"Stiles, look, I didn't mean to—" Derek tries exasperatedly, taking a step forward but Stiles counters that with another step back.

"Just go." He tells him, though his voice frays around the edges. "Please."

Derek hesitates for a moment, but then straightens up, features closing off and growing tight and solid again; transforming him back to Derek the incompetent Alpha again. "Scott and Isaac went to go check out Lydia and Danny." He turns and heads back to the kitchen door, calling over his shoulder, "Make sure you stay here tonight."

Stiles nods, leaning back against the counter and picking up his mug of cold tea, avoiding Derek's gaze. "Will do."

Derek hovers in the kitchen door for another moment before making his way down the hall, shutting the door after him, and leaving Stiles alone in the sudden suffocating silence.

And Stiles…Stiles suddenly really wants his mom. Wants her to come and hold him, to tell him that it's all right, that Derek was just one stupid boy in a million. Just one of the many toads he has to go through before he finds his frog prince. He just wants that one simple thing, and the fact that that can't happen, is the tipping point that allows the tears to start to fall. He finds himself sliding down the kitchen counter until he's sitting on the floor, sobbing into himself.

* * *

By the time Parrish comes back from his shift, he still hasn't managed to get up. It's not like there was anything else to do, he can't call Scott because he's probably still pissed at him for 'hiding things', and he doesn't want to deal with another round of offers from Lydia and Allison to eviscerate Derek for him. And anyway, everyone and anyone he calls will just want to talk about it and Stiles…really doesn't want to talk about it.

"Stiles, Stiles, hey, what's wrong?" Parrish asks worriedly, crossing the kitchen floor and kneeling down next to him in a matter of seconds.  
"Nothing." Stiles tells him, wiping his eyes furiously. "I just…my tea went cold."

"Stiles." Parrish says, firmly, but gently. "What's really wrong?"

Stiles says nothing, just stares at his hands instead of Parrish's worried green eyes.

"Does it have something to do with Derek?" Parrish asks and Stiles hunches into himself more slightly in response. "It does, huh?"

Parrish lets out a small sigh and sits down beside Stiles. "Look, Stiles, he wouldn't happen to be the one you were telling me about the other day, would he? The one that you had feelings for—"  
"I don't care about Derek." Stiles bites out angrily, hunching into himself more, because he absolutely couldn't give a single fuck about him anymore; it's the truth, he swears.

Parrish is silent for a moment before continuing, sending Stiles a small smile as he does so. "Well, in that case, I don't care about any of the people that broke my heart either."

"He didn't break my heart." Stiles lies to both Parrish and himself, "And besides, he's a guy."

"Then why are you really on the floor?" Parrish asks, and Stiles doesn't have a good answer for that. And he's so fucking done with not having a good answer for things.

"I don't—" He breaks off, staring angrily at his mug of cold tea, imagining it's Derek's face as he pictures smashing it into a thousand pieces.

Silence falls over the both of them for a moment before Parrish gets up, moving over and picking up Stiles' mug before taking it to the sink.  
"Alright, why don't we go sit on the couch instead? It's definitely a lot more comfortable." He teases lightly, dumping out Stiles' tea and putting the kettle on again. "Go pick out a movie and I'll make you some more tea."

"You don't have to do that." Stiles says, slight guilt coursing through him (wow, what a great host he's being huh?) as he pushes himself up from the floor.  
"I can—"

"You, Stiles, are supposed to be resting." Parrish tells him sternly, waggling his finger at him while humor twinkles in his eyes. "I'm on strict orders from Melissa to make sure that you do." He nods his head towards the living room, making a shooing motion with his hand. "Now, go on."

Stiles makes his way towards the door, pausing in the entry way, and sending Parrish a grateful look. "Thanks."

Parrish sends him a soft smile. "No problem." He turns back to the cupboard, pulling out a bag of tea and another mug. "Look, I don't know about you, but Friday is my cheat night, how do you feel about take-out?"

"Sounds good, as long as we hide the evidence before my dad gets back." Stiles calls over his shoulder and he hears Parrish let out a small laugh as he makes his way over to the living room.

He looks through their collection of movies for a few minutes before pulling out 'Star Wars IV: A New Hope' and wonders if Parrish would agree to a Star Wars marathon as he puts it into the DVD player. He makes his way back over to the couch just in time for Parrish to come out of the kitchen and hand him his tea.  
"Thanks." He says gratefully, taking the mug gingerly and settling in the couch, before blowing on it and taking a tentative sip. "It's really good."

"Glad you like it." Parrish tells him before the dramatic music attracts his attention towards the title screen. "So, Star Wars?"

"Yeah, is that ok with you?" Stiles asks, turning to face him hopefully, and he may or may not attempt to put on puppy dog eyes that put Isaac's to shame.  
Parrish nods and gives him a grin. "It's fine, I like Star Wars; you in a marathon kind of mood?"

Stiles stares at him in surprise for a moment before shooting him a grin. "Yeah, actually, I was gonna ask you if you were up for it."

Parrish pats him on the shoulder. "Sounds good." He jerks his thumb back towards the kitchen. "Could you tell me where the take-out menus are?"

"I can get them." Stiles tells him, trying to get off the couch only to be gently pushed back down.  
"Rest, remember?" Parrish tells him mock sternly and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Finding the take-out menus isn't exactly back breaking."

"Given how clumsy your Dad tells me you can be, it just might be." Parrish jokes and Stiles sends him a glare.  
"Rude," he waves his hands dismissively, "they're in the second last drawer, though you might have to root around a while to find them."  
"Thanks." Parrish tells him, giving him one final pat before making his way back towards the kitchen; and Stiles rolls his eyes again before taking another sip of his tea. Because damn, not only can Parrish buy good tea, he can also make it. Now see, why couldn't he have fallen for someone like that? Instead of—

The phone rings, drawing him out of his pitiful rant before he-who-must-not-be-named (no, not Voldemort, the dickwad Alpha) can enter into it, and he reaches over to grab the handset lying on the table and answer it. "Hello, Stilinski residence, the great and powerful Stiles speaking, who is this?"

"_The father of the great and powerful Stiles."_ His Dad's dry voice crackles down the phone line, _"Currently hoping to god that that's not the way you've been answering the phone since I left."_

Stiles shrugs, taking a sip of his tea, and hiding the not so small burst of relief that rushes through him at hearing his Dad's voice with yet another smartass comment. "The great and powerful Stiles can neither confirm nor deny."

"_Of course he can't."_ He hears his Dad sigh and the corners of his lips curl into a satisfied smirk. _"Look I just wanted to call and check that everything was going alright."_

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Dad, didn't Parrish like, just call you today to tell you that?" But he gets it, he's actually kinda surprised his dad hadn't called earlier, given what a worry wart he was, and what with, you know, his only son being kidnapped by psychotic twins that Stiles would bet his left foot the Sheriff's office is currently trying to pin the last couple of murders on.

"_I know but I wanted to talk to you and make sure. And I wanted to ask if there was anything bothering you that you didn't feel like you could, I don't know, tell Parrish about? Maybe, oh hell, I don't know, a girl?"  
_

Stiles feels his eyebrow raise far more than slightly; after everything that's happened his dad is still hung up over the possible broken-heart-thing that he was interrogating Stiles about before he left yesterday? "Um no, I think the whole being kidnapped and bled out has kinda of put me off girls in general, especially twins, for a while."

Silence crackles down the phone line for a moment before his Dad's voice echoes down it again. _"Stiles, what the hell are you talking about?"_

Stiles fights down a yawn as he speaks his next words, he guesses Melissa was right about that whole, needing rest thing because he feels absolutely drained. "You know, the thing Parrish told you about when he called earlier."

"_Parrish didn't say anything like that." _And wow, his dad sounds confused beyond all fuck, maybe the New York branch plied him with a couple of drinks before this call?

"Yes he did." Stiles reminds him patiently, recalling the conversation in his hospital room that morning. "That's why…he's staying over…because you and him agreed that it was safer—"

"_He's what?" _And is it just him or is there genuine panic beginning to work its way through the confusion in his Dad's tone? And that…that panic isn't good, Stiles' dad does not need more stress piled onto his heart…it can only take so much…and why…why is his vision beginning to blur? Is…is that a normal side effect of post-blood loss?

A shattering sound to his right alerts him to his fallen mug, lying in shattered pieces of porcelain all over the hardwood floor as the pale green tea spills out around it in a giant puddle.

_"Stiles, what was that, what's going on?" _His dad demands urgently and Stiles struggles to form words through the haze in his mind and the sudden thickness of his tongue. "Relax dad, I just…dropped my tea." He runs a hand over his face. "Sorry, I'm feeling kinda…out of it."

"_Stiles, is Parrish there right now?" _His dad enquires just as urgently and Stiles starts to nod his head before remembering dimly that his dad can't see it. "Yeah…he's grabbing…take out menus from the—

"_Stiles, you have to get out of there." _And that, right there? That is genuine panic practically flooding from his tone and Stiles feels another guilty spike throb through him at the thought of what it's probably doing to his dad's heart. _"You need to get in your jeep and don't stop until you get to the Sherriff's station, you hear me?"_

Stiles shakes his head, his eyelids beginning to droop. "Dad, I can't…I can't even move…how am I going to drive the jeep?"

He hears his dad curse down the line and a bunch of other background voices begin to kick into his ears as well. _"Stiles, look, you have to—you have to make yourself move—at least, get to the den and grab my gun from the safe. The combination—"_

The phone line goes dead in his ear just before it slips from his fingers and hits the couch below.

"Well," Parrish's voice floats over to him, his face hovering in front of Stiles' and blinking in and out of focus. "I guess we'll have to postpone our movie night, huh?"

* * *

"Well that was fun." Isaac declares, rolling his eyes as he and Scott drive away from Danny's house. Where a scowling Danny shakes off most of the Verbena they tossed at him on his front porch before storming inside and slamming the door behind him.

Scott gives a sigh of frustration, turning down the street. "Who else could it be?" They'd already checked out Lydia, who was just as happy about red dust being thrown over her clothes as Danny was, except as least Danny didn't threaten to cut their balls off with his stiletto heels.

Isaac shrugs. "Maybe that guy Stiles kissed?"

Scott shakes his head. "Deaton said it had to be someone that has seen Stiles at least twice. And besides, that whole thing happened after the Lamiae and the Wendigo." His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "There must be something, someone, that we missed."

Isaac casts him a worried look. "Hey, you ok?"

"No." Scott bites out, before taking another deep breath and shoving down at the wolf struggling to crawl out from under his skin. "There's a murderer using my best friend as a power supply, and I have no fucking clue who it could be."

"And you're upset because Stiles didn't tell you about the text and the memories." Isaac adds and Scott shoots him a look full of disbelief.  
"Aren't you?"

Isaac shrugs again. "Maybe he didn't want to talk about them until he'd figured out what they meant."

"But if he told us, we could've helped him figure it out." Scott protests.  
"Maybe Stiles wanted to figure them out on his own." Isaac suggests.  
"And nearly get himself killed? What if that text sending to him to the library was part of a trap, and he got hurt?" Scott demands.

Isaac just shrugs again, staring out the window and silence falls over the two of them for a moment.

"Maybe he was trying to prove to himself that he didn't need anyone's help." Isaac says softly, watching the scenery blur past the window and seeing something else.

Scott glances over at him carefully, measuring his words before he lets them fall past his lips. "But that's what friends are for, helping you."

Isaac looks back at him, something unreadable crossing over his face before turning back to the window. "Yeah." The corners of his lips twitch slightly. "It's nice."

Scott reaches over and gently pats him on the shoulder before turning back to the road and nearly slamming in to a squad car that comes careening out of nowhere.

He slams on the brakes, throwing the two of them forward as their seatbelt dig into their shoulders. "Fuck! What the hell was that?"  
"They came out of fucking nowhere." Isaac complains, staring after them angrily. "If they've got to get somewhere so badly, why wasn't the siren on?"

Scott shakes his head, his heartbeat still going a hundred miles a minute as he struggles to retract his claws from where they've dug into the steering wheel, god, his mom's going to kill him for that, and his brows scrunch together in confusion. "That was really weird, Stiles' dad is really strict about stuff like that."

"Maybe whoever it is figures they can get away with it cause he's out of town." Isaac says, still glaring after the squad car.

Scott nods slowly, staring after the squad car as well as something rolls uneasily in his gut and he starts driving again. "Yeah. Look, why don't we drive by his house, just to make sure he's ok?"

Isaac nods. "Alright, at least we won't run into Derek. Peter texted me a little while ago and told me he's taken a night off camping on his front lawn to sulk in the loft."

Scott shoots him a weird look. "You gave _Peter_ your number?"

"No." Isaac tells him vehemently. "I think he stole Derek's phone and got it from there."  
"Can't you block him or something?" Scott asks.  
"I tried that, but then he just stole my phone and unblocked himself." Isaac shakes his head. "I just figured it wasn't worth the effort to try again."

Scott nods, when it came to Peter Hale, a lot of things weren't worth the effort. He suspects that's partly why Derek hasn't bothered to kill him again.

* * *

When they turn the corner to Stiles' street, they are completely unprepared for the sight that awaits them.

A least fifty squad cars line the street, turning the neighborhood into a collage of flashing red and blue lights. All of Stiles' neighbors are out of their houses or have their noses pressed up against their windows, staring down at the Stilinksi house, where it looks like the entire Beacon Hills Sherriff's Office has gathered, talking into their radios and shouting orders at each other as they gesture towards the house.

"What the hell?" Scott hears Isaac say as he stares at the scene before him, his eyes scanning the crowd desperately for any sign of Stiles. And he feels panic light up his chest when he finds none. He pulls the car over to the side of the road jerkily; not stopping to make sure it's properly parked before jumping out and taking off in a sprint towards Stiles' house, Isaac following right on his heels.

A deputy steps in front of the two of them, holding his hand up warningly.

"I'm sorry, but you can't enter this area. It's off limits."  
"What happened?" Scott demands, panic clawing at him as the wolf inside scratches at its cage, desperate to get out and find out what's happened to his pack.

"I'm afraid I can't discuss that at this time." The officer informs him firmly, but Scott can hear his heartbeat pounding loudly, worriedly, in the air between them.

"But he's our friend—" Isaac protests.

"I'm sorry." The officer repeats, cutting Isaac off and staring them down until they back away, before heading away to join a bunch of officers gathered by Stiles' jeep. Scott listens closely, the wolf still clawing desperately in his chest, drowning out the other noises and focusing his hearing on their conversation.

"Do you send out the APB?"

"Sandra's doing it as we speak. God, I can't believe this, it's like some sort of nightmare. I keep hoping that my alarm will go off and I'll wake up."

"God, don't we all."

"Did you hear anything more from the Sherriff?"

"Mark said that the last thing he told him was that he was getting on the next flight back."

"Wouldn't like to be in his shoes right now."

"I feel like I am, I mean, I've known Stiles since he was just a baby."

"So have the rest of us, but at least we're here to do something about. He has to sit through a six hour long plane ride knowing that the bastard's got his kid."

"I swear to god I'm going to kill that son of a bitch—"

"As long as you let me help out I've got no complaints."

"Lets all just try to calm down, we have to focus on—"

"Calm down? Calm down?! Do you _know_ what Liz found in his desk?"

"That's not the issue here, what's important is that we find Stiles. Then we can deal with Parrish."

Scott steps backward, shocked out of his concentration by the name, the missing piece that they'd let slide past them. He'd never considered for even a moment that it might have been someone at the Sherriff's office, someone that Stiles must have seen at least once or twice a week when he went to go drop off his dad's lunch. God, he'd been such an idiot, and now Stiles was—

"That squad car." Isaac says, drawing Scott's attention back to him. "The one that didn't have its lights on, it was driving away from this direction, wasn't it?"

"So?" Scott demands. "How does that have anything to—" He breaks off, realization cracking him over the head with the force of a sledgehammer and he stares at Isaac in horror. "Do you think…?"

Isaac nods and the two of them fly back towards the car, Isaac barely managing to jump into the passenger side before Scott's pulling out and barreling back down the street.

"Call Derek." Scott tells him, and this time, Isaac doesn't complain. "We'll go to the Sherriff's station and get something of Parrish's to track his scent with."

Isaac nods, typing in the number and pressing it to his ear, both of their features tight as they wait for the call to go through.

* * *

Everything meshes together in a confusing mangled mess of sensations. He hears doors slam and feels cold night air caress his face. He hears the soft click of someone clicking a seatbelt into place and the rumble of a car engine as he feels vibrations begin to run along his body. He hears Parrish's low, soothing voice, as his head lolls backwards, his eyelids fluttering slightly as he struggles to input all the information swimming around in the hazy fog that has fallen over his brain. He hears the screech of car brakes as Parrish swears loudly and a fierce jerk tells him that they've accelerated; a feat he hadn't thought possible considering how fast it felt like they were going.

And eventually, after what feels like an eternity, the car slows and stops. Then he hears car doors opening as Parrish unclicks his seatbelt and lifts him out of the car, and it feels like his body is literally floating through the air as they make their way towards a blurry log cabin; and then he blinks and he's lying on his back on a soft couch, Parrish propping up a pillow behind his head.

"What…the hell…" He tries to say, the words falling out of his mouth in a nearly unrecognizable mumble.

"Shhh, Stiles, you need to rest." Parrish tells him gently, moving off the couch and making his way towards the kitchen. "I know I promised take out, but how about I make you my famous spaghetti instead?"

"Why?" Stiles manages to push past his numb lips.

"Because now's not the best time to order out." Parrish tells him lightly, and he hears him rummaging around in some cupboards before letting out a small noise of satisfaction. "Ah," A blurry box enters Stiles' vision, "found the spaghetti."

"No." Stiles says, fighting desperately against the haziness. "Why…are you—"  
"Oh, why am I doing this?" Parrish asks, making his way back over to the couch and sitting just in front of Stiles' hips. "Yeah, I guess I do owe you some answers, huh?"

He lays a hand over Stiles' and Stiles wants to shake him off, wants to punch him, but can't—he can't fucking move.

"You see, Stiles, it all started a long time ago, before you or I were born." Parrish tells him, intertwining their fingers together and staring at them with decidedly too much fascination while he speaks. "When a witch from your mother's bloodline made a pact with the Hale pack, ensuring that the two sides would work together to protect Beacon Hills from—well—itself really." Parrish sighs gently and gives him a wry smile. "I'm sure you've noticed already, but this place really is a _'beacon'_ for the supernatural. It's so easy to summon things here, to practice magic here." He laughs quietly, still staring down at their intertwined hands, with a smile that makes the hairs on the back of Stiles' neck stand up. "There's a kind of power that flows through the earth here, like the land hasn't forgotten how it used to be before the witch-hunts, and long before Salem."

"Anyway, your mother was especially determined to uphold the pact when she took over as our coven leader, mostly because Talia Hale was her best friend, and she refused to look at the danger they posed." Parrish's jaw clenches and his grip on Stiles' hand tightens painfully. "Werewolves attract hunters, hunters that would just as soon put a bullet through a witch than a werewolf. And the rest of them, Harris, Morenz, Morgenstern, they agreed with her. Everyone except for my father."

Parrish huffs out a laugh as Stiles' eyes practically bug out of his head. "Recognize the names, huh? Don't worry, I'm getting to that bit." He raises his hand to brush across Stiles' cheek. "Just, be patient."

He leans back, removing his hand from Stiles' face but keeping a hold of his hand. "No matter what my dad said, they never believed him, and eventually your mother told him that he had to stop bringing him up or she'd kick him out of the coven. And so he fell silent for a while, until you were born, and that mutt," Parrish snarls the word, "claimed you."

Stiles simply stares at him, trying to make the words make sense in his head.

"Oh, Talia tried to make it seem like it was some great, mystical, werewolf thing that us pitiful little mages couldn't understand, but we all knew what it really was." Parrish continues, clenching Stiles' hand so hard that Stiles can feel tears beginning to pinprick the corners of his eyes. "A power play. But your mother still wouldn't see it; she actually believed the shit that fucking bitch was feeding her."

"Don't…" Stiles bites, his hand twitching slightly as he tries to tear it away from Parrish's; no one talks about his mother like that, or Derek's.

Parrish realizes his mistake, reaching forward again and cupping his chin gently.

"I'm sorry." He tells him soothingly. "But it's the truth. Your mother let those mongrels draw you into their pack and away from us, from where you truly belong. You grew up with them instead of with your own kind, instead of me."

"And then, just before you turned six and started school, your mother took a trip to Santa Monica to root out a rogue seer and came back changed; told my father that the seer had shown her something that she wanted to check further. That a deceitful lover would burn down the Hale house." Parrish huffs out a disbelieving laugh, brushing a hand across his hair. "And your mother couldn't stop herself from wondering if it would be you."

Stiles feels his gut clench as guilt and a terrible sense of foreboding roars furiously through him

"So she made my father tell her a spell that would allow her to see into the future, even though the only people who can see safely into the future are seers." Parrish waves his hand dismissively. "There are too many eventualities, too many inconsequential actions that, when strung together, become consequential. Unless you know how to block them out and focus on what path you want to follow, they can make you lose your mind."

Stiles feels as though someone has just dripped icy cold water down his back, the freezing droplets traversing down his skin as sick realization washes over him.

"She—" He struggles to get out, his lungs feeling as though that icy cold water is filling them up as well, "That's…why she…"

"She wouldn't stop looking, even when she found out it wasn't you." Parrish tells him, shaking his head. "My father warned her how dangerous it was, but she wouldn't listen, she was determined to figure out who that deceitful lover was, and eventually, it consumed her."

Parrish's hold on his hand is bone crushing, and Stiles can feel his nails piercing his skin. "The coven blamed my father for what had happened to her and threw him out, forced us to leave town. And no other coven would accept him once they found out why." Parrish stares down at Stiles, an unhinged gleam in his eyes, and Stiles can feel warm blood begin to slip down his palm. "He died blaming himself for what had happened, drinking himself and my mother into their graves. But I knew who was really to blame, and I bided my time, and then I came here and took care of them."

"You—" Stiles breathes, his hand stinging painfully.

"Yes." A satisfied smile spreads across Parrish's face. "Me. My father used to tell me stories about the missions they all went on together, and all their fears. Harris was terrified of snakes, Morenz was terrified of being eaten alive, and Morgenstern was always overly cautious when it came to vengeful spirits." His lips twist into a cruel smirk. "Maybe he knew more about his ancestry than he let on."

He stares down at their hands, loosening his grip and Stiles lets out a slight breath of relief as the pain dissipates slightly. "You were just supposed to be a power supply, but then I met you again and you were—" He finally lets go of Stiles' hand, only to move his hands to his face as he leans forward, pressing his forehead to Stiles'. "Just so full of energy, and life, and at first I just I didn't want your blood on my hands as well as theirs. But the more I got to know you, that more I hated that mutt for his hold on you. And I saw how he treated you; like trash that he couldn't even be bothered to throw out." He moves his head to Stiles' ears, brushing his lips against them, and Stiles can't help the little gasp of fear that breaks past his own. His hands trembling as much as whatever the fuck Parrish drugged him with will allow; a small mercy, like Jamie being allowed to scream. "I'll treat you so much better, I promise Stiles, you'll forget him and everyone else in this fucking hellhole so fast once we're gone."

"Gone?" Stiles gasps, struggling to not to succumb to the panic encasing his lungs in its icy grip.

Parrish nods. "We can't stay here, we're leaving as soon as the first forty eight hours are up."

Panic floods through Stiles, by the time the first forty eight hours are up and nothing has turning up, the Sheriff's office will probably think that Parrish has already taken him out of the state, and either way won't expect whatever freaky magic trick Parrish is going to pull to get them out of town. And though it's unlikely that Scott, Lydia, Allison, Isaac, and maybe Derek will just let that happen without trying to follow after them, what are the chances of them finding him if Parrish fucking teleports them to Greece or something? Somewhere between slim and fuck all hope.  
He forces his arms to move and shove desperately as Parrish, though they have roughly about the same strength as a wounded butterfly. "Get...off!"

"Shhh, it's alright." Parrish tells him, stroking his hair gently, and it is not fucking alright; it is so far away from alright that alright is a mere dot in the distance, the size of those minuscule dust particles that you find on glasses.

"Let me…go!" Stiles yells, breaking off with a cry of pain as Parrish grips his hair hard and yanks it backwards.  
"I said, shh." Parrish grits out through his teeth, tugging Stiles' head to the side and eliciting another whimper of pain from his lips. "I'm going to try and treat you well Stiles, but you have to co-operate."

"You're sick." Stiles spits at him, and gets another hard yank on his hair for his trouble. Parrish looks like he might punch Stiles, anger blazing like a wildfire in his eyes, making the unhinged gleam in them all that more prominent, before an eerie calm falls over his features and he moves off Stiles.

"Clearly, you need some time to take this all in." Parrish tells him, before snapping his fingers.

The colors in the room blur together in a distorted mess and Stiles finds himself lying in a dark room, his hands pulled above his head and something sticky covering his mouth, preventing him from so much as twitching it. He tries to move his hands, only to hear the rattle of chains as cold metal presses harshly against his wrists.

"We'll talk once you've settled down." Parrish's disembodied voice filters through his ears and he swivels his head form side to side, looking for any sign of the bastard but coming up with nothing.

He screams desperately into the silence, hoping against hope that someone will hear him; that someone will magically appear out of nowhere and rescue him. He lets his head fall back onto the soft pillows, struggling not to the terrified tears fall from his eyes, but unable to prevent them when the only thing that answers his muffled scream is that deafening silence.


End file.
